


Metamorphosis

by arabis



Series: Signature [5]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabis/pseuds/arabis
Summary: Under threat from humans and Decepticons alike, the decision has been made to train Sam in self-defense. An attack by the Upstart will put that training to the test.
Relationships: Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky
Series: Signature [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560772
Comments: 570
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

Sam was startled out of a deep sleep by the insistent buzzing of his alarm clock. He groaned into the pillows, reaching out a hand to swat ineffectually at the snooze button. The buzzing persisted, and he slanted open an eye to look at the time—5:00 AM stared back at him, stolid and implacable. Sam sighed heavily, before pushing up onto an elbow and switching off the alarm.

“Oh yeah, this was a great idea.” He grumbled, scrubbing the grit out of his eyes.

It had all started with Lennox. The Major had bridged to the embassy several days after Sam’s return from California. They had met in Sam’s office, and Lennox informed him, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to learn self-defense. The idea appealed to Sam in an abstract way—he knew there would be others like Bishop and Novo, and he should be able to protect himself. However, he had been taken aback when Lennox informed him that he would be joining the latest batch of NEST recruits. Sam had protested, of course—NEST recruits were among the finest combat veterans on the planet. Lennox had brushed aside his complaints with a terse ‘ _Suck it up, Sam’_ and that had been that.

Lennox and Epps gave him an outline of his schedule shortly before he bridged to the island. The NEST recruitment process was modeled loosely after recruit training in the United States Marine Corps. It was twelve weeks of intense physical training, close quarters combat training, and weapons training. Sam would be given an abridged version—there was no need for him to learn drill or ceremony or military history, since he wasn’t in the NEST command structure. Instead, he would be subjected to weapons training, self-defense, basic first aid, and hostage training. Sam had paled at the last addition to the list, but Lennox was firm in his resolve.

Sam pushed aside the blankets and stumbled towards the bathroom. He had laid out his things the night before and he was thankful for his foresight. He had been issued—yes, _issued_ —his own gear when he returned to the island. The clothes were various shades of green and brown, and although it wasn’t a uniform in the strictest sense, it was definitely uniform-adjacent.

He used the bathroom and brushed his teeth, before getting dressed. Lennox had advised him to wear something light—a warning as much as a directive—and so Sam had chosen a tee-shirt and desert camo pants. The boots came up well over his ankles, and it took a while to lace them properly. When he finished, Sam made his way back into the living room to grab a bite to eat. He munched on dry cereal as he eyed the clock, and when he was full, he washed it down with a bottle of water. 

It was almost 5:30 AM by the time he made it to the North Quad entrance. Lennox was waiting for him, his arms folded over his chest and a no-nonsense expression on his face. The Major looked him up and down as he approached, before nodding in approval.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said by way of greeting.

“Good morning to you too.” Sam replied dryly, falling into step beside him.

“We’re going to begin by getting a sense of your fitness level.” Lennox explained as though Sam hadn’t spoken, “The Marine Corps has minimum standards, and I want to see how you compare.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I haven’t gone to the gym since high school.”

Lennox snorted loudly. “I know what I’m doing, Sam. We don’t expect you to knock it out of the park on your first day.”

The wry humor in Will’s voice served to calm some of the anxiety twisting up his insides. He had been told that his inexperience was factored into the training regimen, but it was nice to have the reassurance.

They made their way through the bridge towards the receiving room. It was busy, despite the early morning hour, with technicians and soldiers streaming through the wide tunnel. The receiving room was similarly hectic, with humans and Autobots alike milling around the cavernous space. Sam caught sight of Hot Rod and Cliffjumper, who were standing on the opposite end of the room in their bipedal modes. He _nudged_ at them in greeting, causing them to glance in his direction. Roddy tossed him a thumbs up as Cliff brushed against him in return.

Lennox stepped onto the lift, standing at parade rest. Sam stood beside him, folding his arms over his chest as he waited for the dozen or so people milling around the lift to join them. They didn’t have to wait long—the light on the control panel blinked red as a buzzer sounded, and then they were rising up towards the ceiling. Sam braced himself as they passed through the solid-looking barrier, and then the bunker came into view. The lift settled into the floor with a jarring _clang_ , and the light on the control panel turned green. Lennox strode towards the large doors on the opposite end of the bunker—they were already open, spilling pre-dawn light into the darkened building.

The soldiers stationed next to the doorway saluted as they approached. Lennox nodded to them both, and Sam murmured a good-morning as he stepped outside. The sky was just beginning to brighten at the horizon. It was a clear day, without a cloud overhead and a cool breeze coming off the water. Sam suspected that he would be thankful for that fact before too long.

Lennox led them over to a jeep parked a short distance away from the building. Sam climbed into the passenger seat as Lennox slid behind the steering wheel. The Major turned the key in the ignition, causing the engine to rumble to life.

“Put on your seatbelt.” Lennox instructed, “It can get bumpy.”

Sam hurried to comply, pulling the belt across his chest and fastening it with a click. As soon as the latch was in place, Lennox shifted the jeep into drive and accelerated down the road towards the airfield. Sam propped his elbow against the doorframe, watching as they navigated through the downtown area. It had been a long time since he had driven in an inanimate car, but Lennox had been insistent that, so long as Sam was in training, the Autobots weren’t to interfere with him. That included waking him up if he overslept and, yes, driving him back and forth to training. His ass belonged to Lennox for the next nine weeks.

The Major drove through the downtown area, passing the checkpoint on the outer perimeter, and accelerated across the airfield. They were headed to the PT grounds on the opposite side of the runway. The area was a large, open field that had a sandy area on one side and a running track on the other. Although, Sam thought to himself, perhaps _running track_ was too grand a term. It was little more than a strip of pavement extending from one end of the grounds to the other.

To Sam’s surprise, Ironhide and Kup were already parked near the track. The GMC Topkick and the Honda Ridgeline were parked side-by-side in the otherwise empty side lot. Lennox pulled to a stop a short distance away, killing the ignition and unbuckling himself.

Sam unfastened his seatbelt and slid out of the car. “Morning, ‘Hide. Morning Kup.”

“Good morning, Sam.” Ironhide rumbled in reply.

“Let’s go.” Lennox said, striding towards the running track. He gave Ironhide an affectionate thump on the hood as he passed. Sam trailed behind him, feeling uncertain and nervous. Lennox stepped onto the running track and stopped, pulling a stopwatch out of his pocket. “Alright, we’ll start with push-ups first. Drop and give me as many as you can in two minutes.” 

Sam sighed internally, but he obeyed without complaint. He had agreed to this, after all. Lennox watched the clock, and he called the time out in fifteen-second intervals. Sam’s arms were burning by the two-minute mark.

“Fifty-two.” Lennox announced unnecessarily, “I want that up to seventy-five by September.”

Sam did crunches next, earning an approving grunt from Lennox when he topped forty-seven in two minutes. He held a plank for two minutes, a flex-arm hang for seven seconds, and then he ran laps for fifteen minutes straight. On his fourth time around the track, Lennox called the exercise to a finish. Sam stumbled to a stop, bending over and planting his hands on his knees as he gasped for air.

Lennox watched him impassively. “Each lap is about 450 meters. Not bad, Sam.”

Sam waved the words away as he struggled to catch his breath. Lennox handed him a canteen, instructing him to drink some water. He accepted it gratefully, slaking his thirst. When he finished, he made to hand it back to Lennox who shook his head.

“Keep it. You’re going to need it.” He said, making his way back towards the parking lot.

Sam followed behind him, wiping the sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. Lennox climbed into the Jeep, turning the key in the ignition with a twist of his wrist. Sam made to open the passenger side door, but it was locked tight.

“Sorry, Sam. You’re walking.” Lennox informed him with a tilted half-grin.

Sam stared at the older man in sinking dismay. “All the way back to base? That’s like five miles.”

“It’s ten kilometers.” Lennox corrected, “I’ll expect you at the firing range by, oh, let’s say, nine-thirty?”

The Major shifted the Jeep into reverse and accelerated back across the airfield. Sam watched him go, his dismay turning into something closer to irritation. Ten kilometers in an hour and a half was going to be a brutal march.

“You should get going.” Ironhide rumbled, “It will be thirty degrees before too long.”

Sam sighed and started off without another word. The airfield was relatively quiet, given the early hour. He walked past neat rows of F-16s, F-22s and, closer to base, C-17s. He nodded at the pilots and technicians as he passed. The sun had risen well above the horizon by the time he reached the other end of the airfield. He could see the _Ark_ in the distance, gleaming golden in the early morning light. It was a large spaceship, even by Cybertronian standards. It was over 600 meters long and 80 meters tall. It boasted five decks, five plasma thruster engines, and two anti-gravity engines. It dwarfed even the largest aircraft on the tarmac by several orders of magnitude. However, the _Ark_ wasn’t just large—she was also elegant. The ship was shaped like an arrowhead, with a tapered nose and a wide stern. Its golden panels reflected the sunlight, glinting like the crown jewel that it was.

As he neared the _Ark_ , he became aware of the bustle of activity in its immediate vicinity. There were technicians, soldiers, journeymen, and several Autobots working on her outer hull. The clang of metal on metal and the sound of shouts carried on the wind. He caught sight of Perceptor standing near the loading dock—the scientist was checking crates, one by one, as Trailbreaker and Hound carried them into the cargo hold.

He waved as he strode past the ship, but he didn’t linger around. It was already hot, despite the early morning hour, and he was sweating heavily. He wiped his face with his shirt, before opening the canteen. The water had warmed up, but it satiated his thirst all the same. As he screwed the top back onto the canteen, he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder, only to find Ironhide trailing a hundred meters or so away. He raised his eyebrows at the Topkick, but all he received in return was a flash of his high beams.

The rest of the march was uneventful. The airfield transitioned to the airstrip, and then back to packed dirt road. He was sweating in earnest as he passed the perimeter fence forty minutes later. He nodded to the two Corporals standing sentry, and they saluted him in return. If the knowing looks on their faces was anything to go by, they had already been briefed about his situation.

The sun had climbed well into the sky by the time he finally reached the firing range. The long building was located near the water treatment facility, a short distance away from Procurement. He pulled open the front door, sighing in relief as he realized the building was air-conditioned. He wiped his face for the umpteenth time that morning, before he ambled over to the front desk. A lieutenant glanced up as he approached, her lips twitching before her expression smoothed into a professional façade.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador. Welcome to the Range.” She greeted.

“Good morning, Lieutenant… Kaiser.” He said, reading her nametape, “Is Major Lennox here? He’s expecting me.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll let him know that you’ve arrived.” She said, picking up the phone.

Sam nodded his thanks as he turned, glancing around the lobby. The room was relatively small, considering the size of the building, with just five stacking chairs lined up against one wall and a bulletin board hanging on the other. There was a water cooler in the corner, though, and Sam made his way over to it. He filled the canteen, taking a long drink of cold water, before re-filling it again. By the time he screwed the cap back on, he heard a door open behind him. He turned in time to see Lennox step into the room. The older man looked him up and down, nodding approvingly.

“You made the hike in seventy-three minutes.” He said by way of greeting, “You continue to impress.”

“Thanks Will.” He drawled, making his way across the room, “It’s hot as hell outside, by the way.”

The smile that curled the corners of Will’s mouth was too real to be a smirk, but it was a close cousin.

“There’s good reason why we do PTs in the morning.” He replied, pulling open the door and gesturing for Sam to step inside, “Let’s go. You’re on the clock.”

Sam stepped into the narrow hall on the other side of the doorway. It was featureless, except for the framed stock photographs that lined the walls. They made their way down the hall, stepping through another doorway at the opposite end. He found himself in a long and narrow room, with a number of offices lining one wall and a glass window lining the full length of the other. Sam made his way over to the window, peering curiously through the glass. The room within contained thirty or forty firing lanes, each with its own stall overlooking the gun range. There were at least a dozen soldiers firing weapons of various makes and models—Sam could see one man with an M4, another with a handgun, and one with what appeared to be a tactical shotgun. A stern-looking man in a red vest paced the length of the room, watching the soldiers with a sharp eye. The sound of gunfire echoed loudly in the room, even through the thick glass.

“This is the control booth. It's where you'll sign-out your weapon.” Will said, coming to stand beside him, “You’ll be working with the M16A4 Rifle.”

Sam glanced over at him in surprise. “Why not an M4? Isn’t that what you use?”

“The M16 is a good starter rifle.” Will explained patiently, “It has less kick and heft than the M4. When you’ve become proficient with it, I’ll transition you to something more advanced.”

Sam couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Cool. When do we start?”

Will snorted at him. “In about three weeks. You’re not firing a weapon until you know everything about it. Come with me.”

Sam followed the older man into one of the rooms lining the opposite wall. It was medium sized, with a dozen desks arranged in neat rows in front of a white board. Will nodded to the nearest desk, and Sam slowly took a seat. Will went to the table next to the door and picked up a thick binder. He handed it to Sam without flourish, before folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

“That’s the weapon schematics of the M16A4 rifle.” Will said, “I expect you to commit everything in this binder to memory.”

Sam glanced up at him in surprise. “In how long?”

Will raised an eyebrow at him. “However long it takes.”

The older man was perfectly serious, Sam realized, and he internalized a sigh as he opened the binder. The first page held the Rifleman’s Creed.

> _This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine._
> 
> _My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life._
> 
> _Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will ..._
> 
> _My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit ..._
> 
> _My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will ..._
> 
> _I swear this creed—my rifle and I are the defenders of freedom. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life._
> 
> _So be it, until victory is ours and there is no enemy, but peace!_

Sam glanced up at Will, pinning the older man with a skeptical look. “It’s a little… propagandist, don’t you think?”

“It used to be worse.” Will replied with a shrug, “Prime made us change it. He thought it sent the wrong message.”

Sam turned the page to find a detailed schematic of the M16A4 rifle with each part labeled by name. He didn’t realize that there were so many components to a rifle—he really only thought about the trigger and the scope.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Will said, pushing off the wall and opening the door, “Oh, and Sam? If I hear a single _Full Metal Jacket_ reference out of you, you’ll be running laps until you puke.” 

Sam rolled his eyes as Will stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. He spent the next three hours memorizing weapon schematics and component names until the words started blurring together. Lennox came to retrieve him shortly after noon, and together they made their way to the dining facilities. Sam was so hungry that he practically inhaled his food—he would have licked his plate clean if he could have gotten away with it.

The afternoon was spent back at the gun range, reading more about the M16A4 rifle. Sam could list most of its parts by name, but he still had trouble with the disassembled schematics. At four o’clock, the door opened and Sam glanced up in surprise. Epps stepped into the classroom, grinning at him.

“You’re with me, Sam. Let’s go.”

Sam was so relieved to be finished memorizing parts that he didn’t ask any questions. He closed the binder, making to leave it on the desk, but Epps shook his head. “Bring it. You can study more tonight.”

He grudgingly complied, tucking the binder under one arm as he followed Epps out of the classroom. The older man strode down the hall, through the lobby, and out into the late afternoon sunshine. Rather than heading back to the Hive, as Sam had expected, Epps crossed the lawn towards Constitution Drive. He hurried to catch up, glancing sidelong at the sergeant in confusion.

“Where’re we going?” He asked.

“The gym.” Epps replied good-naturedly, “Lennox is satisfied with your cardio, but your strength training needs work.”

Sam stared at the older man in dismay. “You want me to lift weights with you?”

“Sure.” Epps agreed, “Well, me and Williams.”

“Bobby, your forearms are bigger than my waist.” Sam replied sarcastically, “I’m going to look like an idiot.”

Epps stopped in his tracks, turning to pin Sam with a serious look. “Hey, don’t talk shit. No one’s going to judge you—the gym’s a supportive place.”

Sam’s expression turned skeptical. “For you, maybe. I pulled a muscle getting out of the shower last night.”

Epps laughed and continued walking towards the road. “Strength training isn’t hard, it just requires discipline. You’ve got that in spades.”

Sam huffed as he jogged to catch up. “I’m not disciplined, I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

“There’s really not.” Epps returned seriously.

Sam mulled that over all the way to the gym. Epps had him start with ten-pound dumbbells, beginning with bicep curls, then concentration curls, followed by chest presses and lateral raises. They rounded out the afternoon on the barbell bench. Sam was shocked when he was able to bench press a hundred pounds without issue. Epps clapped him on the shoulder, added another twenty pounds to each side, and had him go again. Sam strained to complete five reps, but he _did it_. He was grinning by the time Bobby helped him settle the bar back in the catch.

He sat up, wiping the sweat off his face with a gym towel. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Epps grinned at him. “This is just the beginning, Sam. I’ll make a powerlifter out of you yet.”

They walked back to the Hive after Epps finished his reps. It was almost six o’clock by the time he got in line at the mess hall. The familiar smells of East Asian cuisine had Sam’s mouth watering, and he ordered both Pho and Babi Guling. He paid for his meal and found a seat near the cash registers. He glanced at his watch and, the moment the minute hand struck twelve, he felt Bumblebee brush against his mind. The holoform materialized in the seat across the table a moment later.

“I’m officially off the clock, huh?” Sam asked around a mouthful of pork.

Bumblebee smiled at him. “Six o’clock on the dime.”

Lennox had insisted that Sam be left to his own devices during training, which ran from six in the morning to six at night. Bumblebee and Ratchet had agreed and, in doing so, stayed out of Sam’s head as much as possible during that time.

Sam speared another piece of pork and brought it to his mouth. The skin was crackly and the meat was flavored with both sweet and hot spices. It was so tender that it practically melted in his mouth.

“I missed Diego Garcia so much.” He moaned.

Bumblebee chuckled at him, but otherwise he remained silent as Sam ate. It was just as well—he couldn’t shovel food into his mouth _and_ talk at the same time. When he was finished eating and pleasantly full, he stacked up his dishes on the tray.

“How was your day?” Bumblebee asked at last.

Sam considered the question seriously. “Good, I think. I woke up at dark o’clock in the morning, did some PT with Lennox by the airfield, then spent all day studying weapon’s schematics.” He said, before adding, “Oh, hey, I can bench press a hundred and forty pounds!”

The holoform’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline. “That’s a good amount for a man of your age and experience.”

“I know! Who knew?” Sam replied, picking up his tray, “Trent DeMarco can kiss my ass.”

They made their way over to the garbage bins, where Sam scraped his dishes and stowed his tray. When he finished, they left the mass hall and started back towards the officer’s section. The North Quad was busy, given the dinner hour, and Sam nodded to people as he passed. He was aware of the lingering looks that were directed his way, and Sam didn’t blame them—he had pit stains the size of dinner plates under both arms.

They arrived at his apartment about ten minutes later. Bumblebee pulled open the door, and Sam stepped into the familiar space with a murmur of thanks. It had been strange returning to the island after his extended stay at the embassy, but his apartment was the closest thing he had to a home and it was good to be back. He sat on the couch, leaning over to unfasten his boots. The laces were tight and his fingers were clumsy, so it took a few tries before he pulled them off. He groaned in relief, falling back against the cushions.

“I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.” He complained.

“Yes, you are.” Bumblebee agreed, picking the boots up and setting them by the front door. “You should go shower while you still have the energy.”

Sam could see the wisdom in that, so he hauled himself up and ambled into the bedroom. He took a moment to grab his sleep clothes, before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. He turned the shower on full blast, peeling out of his sweaty things and leaving them in a heap on the floor. He climbed into the tub, groaning in pleasure at the feeling of hot water drumming against his skin. He washed slowly, enjoying the heat and the water pressure. The shower in his apartment at the embassy was narrow and cramped—this was a luxurious experience in comparison. When he finished, he stood under the showerhead and drifted. He didn’t know for how long he stood there, but the air was thick with steam by the time he shut off the water.

When he pulled aside the shower curtain, he saw that his dirty clothes had been removed and clean clothes had been left on the countertop. Sam smiled as pulled on his boxers and lounge pants, before making his way into the living room.

“Be careful.” He teased the holoform, who was sitting on the couch, “Lennox might accuse you of trying to interfere.”

Bumblebee tossed him a sardonic smile. “I can do whatever I please between the hours of six PM and six AM.”

Sam flopped down onto the couch beside him. “I’m not sure Will would agree, but I’m not complaining.”

Bumblebee drew Sam close and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

He sighed in contentment, letting his eyes drift closed. “I’m not sure. I think they were being purposefully vague. More PT and more weapon’s schematics would be my guess.”

The holoform made a considerate noise, and then he was quiet for a long while. Eventually, he murmured, “Are you looking forward to it?”

Sam angled his head to look at him. “What, PT?”

Bumblebee's lips curved up in a wry smile. “Weapon’s training.”

“Oh.” Sam said, settling his head back against the holoform’s chest, “Yeah, I think so. What guy wouldn’t want to learn how to shoot big guns? Will’s starting me on the M16.”

Bumblebee was quiet for a moment longer. “I know you had no desire to be a soldier.”

There was a strange note in his voice, something sorrowful or melancholy, and Sam sat up to look at him. “Well, no, but I’m not a soldier, am I? I’m just learning how to shoot for self-defense. It’s not like I’m going to war.”

Bumblebee’s expression did something complicated—his eyebrows knit together and his mouth turned down. “We don’t know what the future holds, Sam.”

Sam frowned faintly. “No, we don’t. I guess it’s good that I’ll be prepared, either way.” His words caused a pensive look to spread across Bumblebee’s face, and Sam’s frown deepened. “What is it?”

Bumblebee seemed to come back to himself. The holoform shook his head, fixing Sam with a lighthearted smile. “Nothing, I’m just deep in thought. Are you looking forward to training on the obstacle course?”

The obstacle course was an outdoor firing range with moving targets and varied terrain. He would be allowed to train under the supervision of Lennox and Ironhide after he had passed all of his qualifications. He had watched Alpha Team complete the course shortly after he had first arrived at the island—it had been undeniably awesome. 

“Oh yeah, definitely.” He agreed, settling back down against the holoform’s side, “Bluestreak is going to teach me how to shoot distances. I can’t wait.”

“Well, I’m glad you had a good first day.” Bumblebee replied, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, only nine more weeks to go.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next two weeks of Sam’s life were a rude awakening—both physically and mentally. 

He was so sore the following morning that he had a difficult time climbing out of bed. He stumbled into the bathroom on wobbly legs, and it took a great deal longer to get ready than it had the previous day. After he was finally dressed, he ambled into the living room to fix himself something to eat. He opted to make instant oatmeal, hoping the warm mash would stick to his ribs. He ate quickly, keeping an eye on the clock. Despite his diligence, it was still quarter-to-six by the time he limped towards the bridge. Lennox was waiting by the quad doors, and his lips pressed into a disapproving line at the sight of him.

“You’re late.” He said flatly.

Sam pulled up short, taken aback. “What? No, I’m not.”

Lennox unfolded his arms so he could glance at his wristwatch. “It’s almost six.”

“You said to meet you here at quarter-to, and it’s quarter-to.” Sam replied tightly.

“If you’re not early, then you’re late.” Lennox replied, “Next time, I’m leaving without you.”

Sam bit back his angry protest—he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. Instead, he set his jaw and nodded tersely. “Fine. I’ll be here at 5:30 tomorrow.”

If Lennox was put off by his clipped tone, he didn’t say anything about it.

That morning was largely a repeat of the first. Lennox drove them to the PT grounds, where he subjected Sam to a series of sit-ups, push-ups, squats, and planks that left him trembling from the strain. He was allowed to take a ten-minute break, long enough for Sam to chug half a bottle of Gatorade, and then he was made to run laps. He lost count of the number of times he rounded the track, but his legs were in agony by the time Lennox called it quits.

The Major looked him up and down, taking in his pale, drawn face, before nodding tersely.

“Get in the Jeep.” He said, already making his way towards the parking lot.

Sam followed after him, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. He climbed into the passenger seat with a groan of relief, and Lennox started off towards the shooting range. The cool morning air helped rally his spirits, and he was feeling marginally better by the time they arrived. He spent the rest of the morning in the little classroom off the control booth, pouring over schematics for the M16A4 rifle. Epps came to retrieve him for lunch, and the two of them made their way to the dining facility. Sam ate a fully loaded chicken bacon sandwich, a plate of fries, and a side serving of coleslaw, all without tasting a thing. After they finished their meals, Epps brought him back to the shooting range where he spent the remainder of the afternoon. When he finished the weapon’s schematics, Lennox brought him some information about NEST organization and command structure. Sam accepted it with a nod of thanks—he knew most of it already, but Lennox didn’t need to know that. They returned to the Hive at a little past six o’clock that evening. Sam ate supper with Lennox and Epps, and then he returned to his apartment. He fell asleep sometime after seven-thirty, and he didn’t stir again until his alarm went off the next morning. 

The remainder of the week followed the same pattern: he met Lennox at 5:30 at the bridge entrance, did PTs until he couldn’t stand on his own two feet, and then he studied for the rest of the day. He joined Epps at the gym on Wednesday and Friday, even though he could barely lift his arms above his head. The training continued through the weekend, but Sam was given a half-day on Sunday. He spent the time off with Bumblebee and Cliffjumper in West Quad. The two scouts were assigned to the communications array, and Sam dozed as they worked. It was wonderful.

The second week began much the same as the first, with one glaring exception: Lennox drilled him on weapon’s specifications from the moment they stepped onto the PT grounds.

“How many rounds in a standard magazine?” He asked, pulling out the stopwatch.

“Thirty.” Sam answered promptly.

“Good. Push-ups first.” Lennox replied, gesturing towards the ground.

Sam dropped onto his hands and began counting off. Lennox watched him impassively until he hit twenty-five, and then he asked, “What caliber bullet does the M16 fire?”

“5.56 by 45 millimeters.” Sam replied.

“Straighten your back.” Lennox barked, before adding, “What’s its effective range?”

Sam gritted his teeth, correcting his posture before he answered. “550 to 800 meters.”

“Wrong.” Lennox replied.

Sam glanced up at him in surprise. “What? No, I’m not.”

The Major raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Sam’s surprise flashed into irritation at the question. “Yes, I’m sure. The M16 has an effective range of 550 meters for a point target, 800 meters for an area target. I’m not illiterate, Will.”

Lennox nodded approvingly, and Sam returned to his push-ups. At fifty, he was asked, “What’s its muzzle velocity?”

Sam had to take a moment to catch his breath before he could reply. “3100 feet per second.” 

The older man let Sam finish his push-ups without further comment. The sit-ups, planks, and squats were also finished in relative silence, but then, to Sam’s dismay, Lennox joined him for his laps.

“Name the accessories that can be fitted to the M16.” He instructed as they started jogging.

Sam grimaced internally, but he started naming them off—flashlight mount, leaf sight, vertical pistol grip, close quarter combat sling, and on and on. Will jogged at his side, keeping pace with ease, and when they finished the first lap, he said, “Where does the carry handle slot in?”

“The upper receiver rail.” Sam replied, and then because he was feeling cocky, he added, “Same with the quad sight, the AN/PVS-14, and the back-up iron sight.”

Lennox nodded in return, and they finished the rest of the run in silence.

That morning was the first time that Sam signed a rifle out of the arsenal. Lennox took him to the classroom, and they spent the rest of the morning disassembling and reassembling it. Sam named each component as he took it off and set it aside, earning himself a nod or correction as required. It was well past noon by the time he had fully disassembled and reassembled the rifle without a single mistake. They returned the rifle to the arsenal, and then they went for lunch together.

To Sam’s surprise, Ironhide was waiting for them in the parking lot. Lennox crossed over to the driver’s side door, popping it open and climbing into the seat.

“Get in.” He said, pulling the door shut behind him.

Sam blinked, taken by surprise. He had never been inside Ironhide’s cabin before—the passenger seat was usually reserved for Epps or Williams. He made his way around the front of the large truck, before pulling open the passenger side door and climbing into the cab. As soon as his seatbelt was fastened, Lennox shifted the truck into reverse and backed onto the road. Sam couldn’t help but stare in surprise. The Autobots were very tetchy about letting humans assume control of their alt modes. Sam had only ever driven Bumblebee, and even then, it was a rare thing. Will had climbed into the driver’s seat as though he owned the place, and Ironhide didn’t seem particularly put out about it.

He turned his attention inwards, glancing surreptitiously at the warm glow at the edge of his mind. Ironhide’s gunmetal gray signature was mellow and calm, without a trace of disapproval. The weapon’s specialist must have been aware of his scrutiny, for a moment later, the seatbelt tightened marginally across his chest.

Sam got the message loud and clear: _mind your own business._

The drive to the dining hall was uneventful. Lennox pulled into the parking lot next to the building, and climbed out of the cab. Sam followed after him, and they walked inside together. The dining hall was loud with the sounds of a busy lunch hour—talking, laughing, and the clink of dishware. They found a table next to the windows with a clear view of Nimitz Road.

Sam picked up the menu, flipping open to the lunch section, when Lennox said, “You’ll spend some time in the firing range this afternoon.”

He glanced up at the older man in surprise. “What, really?”

“Yes, really.” Lennox replied dryly.

Sam blinked at him. “I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the server, who came to take their drink orders. Lennox ordered a glass of water, Sam ordered a Coke Zero, and then the Major looked across the table at him.

“You’re ready.” He said, his expression unusually serious, “Are you nervous?”

“Yeah, I guess. A little.” Sam admitted.

The last time he had fired a weapon had been when Reedman attacked Dave Carter. He could still remember the smell of gunpowder and blood—it haunted his dreams some nights.

“Good.” Lennox replied, glancing down at his menu, “Being a little nervous is fine—being afraid isn’t.”

Sam mulled over Will’s words as their drinks arrived. The server asked whether they were ready to order and, when they replied in affirmative, took out a pen and a pad of paper. When they gave their lunch orders, the server gathered up the menus and made her way towards the kitchens. Sam turned to stare out the window. It was a beautiful afternoon, with fair weather clouds dotting the sky and a cool breeze coming off the ocean. He would enjoy it while he could—it was going to storm later in the week.

They ate their meals in companionable silence, before returning to the shooting range. Sam’s pulse picked up as they stepped into the air-conditioned building, and it ticked higher as they made their way back to the control booth. Lennox watched as he signed out a rifle and three boxes of ammunition, and then they walked over to the heavy door marked ‘LIVE ROUNDS’.

“Headphones.” Lennox said, nodding towards the box on the bench next to the door.

Sam set down the boxes of ammunition long enough to grab a pair of noise cancelling headphones and put them on, and then Lennox pulled open the door. The sound of gunfire was loud in the enclosed space, even with the headphones. They made their way over to the nearest available firing lane, and Lennox put the rifle and ammunition on the shelf.

“Alright Sam, rule number one: keep your booger hook off the bang switch until you’re ready to fire.” Lennox said, raising his voice to be heard through the headphones and the staccato roar of gunfire. “You’re going to learn trigger discipline until you’re doing it in your sleep.”

To demonstrate his point, Lennox hefted the rifle (sans magazine) and pressed his index finger against the frame above the trigger guard. He tapped his finger against the barrel meaningfully. “The most common way that beginners injure themselves is by pulling the trigger when they’re lowering their weapon.”

Sam nodded and Lennox continued, “Rule number two: always assume your rifle is loaded, which goes with rule number three: never point your rifle at anything that you’re not prepared to kill.”

Sam nodded again, feeling equal parts nervous and excited. Lennox handed him the rifle, which Sam carefully accepted from him. The older man spent twenty minutes demonstrating the proper way to hold the weapon. There was a lot more to it than Sam realized—foot position, posture, shoulder position, and hand grip all mattered. He made Sam raise and lower the rifle, again and again, until he was satisfied with the result. Then, and only then, did he begin loading the magazine.

“Look at me.” Lennox said seriously, and Sam raised his eyes to look the other man in the face, “This isn’t a game—these are live rounds, do you understand?”

Sam jerked his head in an affirmative, and Lennox handed him the magazine. “Alright, then. Load your weapon.”

He reached out, accepting the magazine from Lennox and sliding it into the well. It locked into place with a loud _click_ , and Sam looked towards Will for further instruction.

“What are the three rules?” Lennox asked, eyes flitting over the rifle.

“Trigger discipline, assume the rifle is loaded, and don’t point at anything I don’t want to die.” Sam replied dutifully.

Lennox nodded once, tersely. “Alright. Take aim.”

Sam assumed a standing firing position—feet shoulder width apart, with one foot slightly in front of the other. Lennox re-positioned his left arm so that his elbow was pointing down towards the ground.

“Remove the safety.” Lennox instructed.

Sam glanced down, thumbing off the safety. His heart was pounding in his chest, excitement and nervousness and anticipation thrumming through his veins.

“Fire five rounds.” Lennox said, stepping back to stand behind Sam’s right shoulder.

Sam brought the rifle up, pressing his cheek against the stock and staring down the scope. The paper target was hanging halfway down the firing lane. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then he squeezed the trigger. The kick of the rifle took him by surprise, and he repositioned the stock against his shoulder before he took the next shot. The second round went through the target near the belly-button area, so Sam brought the rifle up slightly and squeezed the trigger again. The third shot was better, as was the fourth, but the fifth went wide. After he fired his last shot, he flicked the safety and lowered the rifle.

Lennox was watching him very closely. “How did that feel?”

The grin spread across Sam’s face before he could stop it. “It was awesome.”

The older man rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he asked, “Can you be more specific?”

“I didn’t expect it to kick so much.” Sam replied sheepishly, “I had to readjust after my first shot, but then it was pretty good. I mean, I think so, anyway.”

Lennox nodded slightly. “The recoil will take some getting used to. Your grip and stance are good; it’s just a matter of experience.” The older man gestured at the rifle, “Alright, fire off the rest of the rounds. Keep count.”

Sam was grinning when he brought the rifle up again. He thumbed the safety off, peered down the riflescope, and started counting shots. He adjusted the position of the rifle after each one, and by the twentieth round, his accuracy had improved significantly. When he had fired the last shot, Lennox had him check his rifle and, after confirming it was empty, he set it down on the shelf. The Major showed him how to refill the magazine one bullet at a time, and then Sam inserted the magazine into the well and fired another thirty rounds. Lennox watched him closely, correcting his stance or his grip as required. He didn’t realize just _how_ closely he was being watched until he almost didn’t take his finger off the trigger when lowering his weapon. Lennox shot out his arm, grabbing the handguard in an iron grip.

“Trigger discipline.” He snapped.

Sam flinched at the severity of his tone, quickly adjusting his grip.

“That’s an extra kilometer added to your run tomorrow morning.” Lennox informed him tightly, “If you do it again, it’ll be three.”

Sam reloaded the magazine for a second time, and then he proceeded to fire the remaining rounds. When he finished, Lennox made him repeat the exercise of checking the weapon for bullets, and after he confirmed it was empty, they made their way down the firing lanes towards the exit. Sam pushed open the heavy door, before pulling up short. Williams and Epps were waiting in the control booth, standing near the window overlooking the range.

“Nice shooting, Sam.” Williams complimented as he stepped into the room.

Sam flushed as he pulled off the headphones. “I didn’t realize that I had an audience.”

“We were in the area anyway.” Williams replied.

“You did pretty well for someone with no rifle experience.” Epps said, glancing over at Lennox, “How many kilometers did he get?”

Lennox put his noise cancelling headphones back in the box. “Just the one—trigger discipline.”

“Hey, that’s not bad, Sam.” Epps said, sounding surprised.

“Thanks.” Sam replied dryly, making to take the rifle back to the arsenal.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lennox asked, quirking an eyebrow, “You don’t sign-in your weapon until you’ve cleaned it.”

Sam flushed hotly in embarrassment. “Oh, right.”

“Well, go on then. You can meet Epps at the gym when you’ve finished.” Lennox said.

Sam sighed quietly to himself, but he took the rifle into the classroom and set to work disassembling and cleaning it. It took him almost an hour, from start to finish, and when he was done, he signed it back in at the arsenal.

The rest of the week settled into a predictable routine. He completed PTs in the morning, with additional runtime incurred for any mistakes he made the previous day. The biggest penalty he earned was five kilometers for failing to check his weapon before removing the magazine. That run almost broke him, and he swore to himself that he’d never make that mistake again. After PTs, he went to the shooting range with Lennox. He assembled and disassembled his weapon for hours, until he was sure that he could do it blindfolded. When he finished, he was taken to the range until lunch. Sam quickly grew to enjoy shooting—he was _good_ at it. The time passed by unnoticed when he was in a firing lane, his entire focus narrowing down to the target in front of him.

His afternoons were spent with Epps at the gym or, increasingly, on marches with Williams. Sam _loathed_ marches—they were five, ten, and fifteen mile hikes down the beach or through the jungle in the midday sun. He complained to anyone who would listen, which was usually Epps or Williams or, later in the day, Bumblebee or Cliffjumper. He only complained to Lennox once, and after that, the older man started adding any punitive miles that Sam incurred to his marches instead of his PTs. He never said another word about it—at least, not while Lennox was in earshot.

At the end of his third week, Lennox announced that he had hit or exceeded the minimum requirements for his physical training. As a result, the Major told him, they would be joining the NEST recruits on Monday. Sam had to swallow the apprehension that lodged in his throat, but he nodded his consent without complaint.

That morning, Sam woke up earlier than usual and made it to the PT grounds before six o’clock. There was already a number of men and women milling around the field. He joined the group, standing off to one side and trying not to look out-of-place. He was aware of the curious looks and sidelong glances that were directed his way, but he tried his best to ignore them. Lennox and Epps arrived shortly before the hour, and they began PTs without any comment about his presence. Sam found himself in line between a tall guy with red hair and a younger guy with glasses. They counted off push-ups and sit-ups, and Sam pushed himself to keep up. To his genuine surprise, he found that he didn’t need to push himself all that hard. Three weeks of intense physical exercise had served its purpose.

After PTs, the platoon was made to walk to the outdoor firing range. It was a bit of a hike, about four miles, but Sam was too excited to be annoyed. He found himself walking between the two men from earlier that morning. They nodded to one another, but otherwise no one said anything. The outdoor firing range was located a short distance from Marianne Point, on a stretch of land that had been designed for this express purpose. As they approached the range, Sam could see Ironhide standing in his bipedal mode. The weapon’s specialist was watching the men and women in the firing lanes, his broad arms folded over his chassis. To his surprise, Bluestreak and Kup were standing at his side. The gunner turned as Sam approached, and _whistled-chirruped_ to him in greeting.

“Hey Blue.” Sam greeted in reply, “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here for training, of course. Yours, not mine.” He added unnecessarily. Sam opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Bluestreak kept right on talking, “Ideally, Crosshairs or Pinpointer would be the ones to train you—they’re both sharpshooters and good ones at that—but they’re not here, are they? I haven’t heard from Crosshairs since we were both assigned to the _Ark-27._ I hope he made it through the war unscathed, but then, so few of us have, haven’t we? I don’t know where Pinpointer—“

The gunner stopped talking mid-sentence as Kup rumbled at him in Cybertronian. Whatever the Elite Guard said caused Bluestreak to close his mouth, tucking all of his panels close to his frame.

“I’m here for training.” He finished quietly.

Sam smiled at him encouragingly. “Well, that’s great. I’m looking forward to it.”

The gunner’s door flaps perked up at his words, but Ironhide interrupted before he could say anything more about it. “You’re doing well with the targets at the shooting range. Today we’ll work with varied distances—200, 300, and 500-yards respectively. Do you have any questions?”

Sam shook his head, and Ironhide gestured towards the firing lanes. Sam felt a rush of excitement, and he followed the other recruits up the stairs and across the platform towards the individual stations. Will was already standing at one lane, and when he saw Sam, the Major beckoned him over.

“First things first.” He said, handing Sam a pair of foam earplugs.

Sam pushed them into his ears, before glancing down the firing lane at the three targets that were already set-up and waiting. Will briefly explained the differences between shooting short- and medium- distances, and then he handed the rifle to Sam and let him start on the nearest target. Sam emptied two magazines into the 200-yard marker, adjusting his weapon as he got a feel for the distance. He slowly became aware of the scrutiny that was directed his way, from both the Autobots and the NEST recruits. The redhead from PTs was standing in the lane next to him, and he watched Sam as he reloaded his magazine.

The 300-yard marker wasn’t much more difficult than the first, but the 500-yard marker gave him some trouble. He only managed to put three bullets from the first magazine through the target. He frowned in frustration, before glancing over at Lennox.

“What am I doing wrong?” He asked.

“You need to learn how to account for distance.” The Major explained, “The wind begins to have an effect at 200 yards or so. Do you see those flags?” He pointed to the orange-and-white tubes that were positioned down the length of the firing range, “Those will tell you about wind speed and direction, so you can adjust your shot accordingly.”

Sam reloaded his rifle and tried again. He managed to put eleven bullets through the 500-yard marker, but his precision was terrible.

The exercise was called to a close at noon. The platoon assembled at the other end of the range, and Ironhide gave individualized feedback to each recruit. Sam was no exception—the weapon’s specialist pointed out his mistakes with the same gruff demeanor as he had the rest of the platoon. Oddly, Sam was thankful for the criticism. He didn’t want to stand out any more than he already did.

Afterwards, the platoon returned to the Hive for lunch. Sam went with them, trailing towards the back of the pack. He once again found himself walking beside Redhead and Glasses. The older men nodded at him and Sam nodded back, and when they arrived at the mess hall, Glasses handed him a tray when he picked one up for himself. It wasn’t until they were sitting down, with Glasses on one side and Redhead across the table, that Glasses gave him a hesitant smile.

“You’re not bad for a beginner.” He said, by way of greeting.

Sam glanced up from his chicken chow mein, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”

“My name’s Jason Kelley, that’s Derek Morrison.” He said, gesturing to the redhead with his fork, “He’s former RM, I’m USAF.”

Kelley had a friendly, affable face, but Sam felt a twist of apprehension at the introduction. He finished his mouthful of chow mein, and nodded slowly. “I’m Sam Witwicky. It’s nice to meet you.”

Morrison chuckled into his glass. “We know who you are, sir.”

Sam glanced at the redhead, taken aback by his wry tone, but Kelley quickly explained. “We were briefed last week. We’ve been expecting you, sir.”

Sam grimaced faintly at the honorific, which had never felt more out of place. “Please, call me Sam.”

Morrison raised his shoulders in a good-natured shrug. “Sure thing, Sam. You can call me Derek.”

He was taken aback by the easy acceptance—no one called him by his first name, even after he insisted they do so. Something of his surprise must have shown on his face, for Kelley gave him an easy smile. “Major Lennox indicated that we’re to refer to you as Mr. Ambassador or sir, until you inform us otherwise.”

“Oh.” Sam replied unintelligibly, “Well… thanks.”

Kelley’s smile widened until dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Hey, no problem. Seriously though—nice shooting. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.”

Sam made a self-deprecating sound in the back of his throat. “I only hit the 500-yard target fourteen times out of forty rounds.”

“Well, yeah, your 500 sucked.” Kelley agreed good-naturedly, “But your 200 and 300 were good for a beginner.”

He flushed at the sincerity in the older man’s voice. “Uh… thank-you.”

They finished their lunch together. Sam quickly learned the Kelley and Morrison were something of a package duo, with Kelley being the more talkative of the two. In a strange way, they reminded him of Hot Rod and Cliffjumper. He listened to them talk, answering any questions they put to him, but he never initiated conversation. That didn’t seem to bother Kelley, who chatted at length about nothing in particular.

After lunch, they met Williams at the perimeter fence for their seven-mile march. The rest of the NEST recruits were outfitted in full gear, while Sam had only had a rucksack and canteen. Still, he was sweating in earnest by three miles, and by the five-mile marker, his canteen was empty and he was hating life. Williams and another officer kept pace, barking out orders and corrections as they marched. Sam was on the receiving end of it, just the same as everyone else, with one glaring exception—he was referred to as ‘ _sir’_ when he was told to pick up his feet or get back in line.

Sam was almost worshipfully grateful when they passed the seven-mile marker. Williams gave the order for R&R and the entire platoon sank to the ground with relieved groans. Sam unshouldered his pack, dropping it on the grass and lying down. Morrison and Kelley followed suit, each taking long drinks from their canisters. 

“You should hydrate.” Morrison told him seriously, “You’re sweating like a nun in a whorehouse.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Marines_.

“You really should.” Kelley agreed, looking him over in concern, “You’re pretty flushed.”

Sam waved the words away. “I’m out of water. I’ll be fine.”

Kelley considered him for a moment, and then he extended his canister towards him. “Here.” He said, shaking it meaningfully, “It’s warm, but you can have it.” 

Sam frowned faintly, opening his mouth to refuse, when Morrison gave him a wry look.

“With all due respect, sir, don’t be a tool. Drink the water.”

The laugh was out of him before he could stop it, and Sam reached out, accepting the canister. The water was warm-bordering-on-hot, but he drank it all the same. He handed the empty canteen back to Kelley, who pushed it into his rucksack. Sam leaned back against his own pack, closing his eyes as he cooled off. It wasn’t more than a few minutes later that he heard the telltale shutter sound of a camera phone. He opened his eyes to see Epps standing above them, holding an iPhone in his hand.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, confusedly.

Epps smirked at him. “A picture for our new Instagram account.”

“Come again?” Sam asked, pushing up onto his elbows.

“Hey, I hear it was your idea.” Epps said, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face, “Consider this payback.”

Sam was too tired to fight the larger man for the phone, so instead he settled back against his rucksack. “If that picture goes viral, I will kill everyone in this platoon and then myself—starting with you.”

Epps just laughed at him and walked away, crossing the narrow patch of grass towards Lennox and Williams. The two officers were standing next to Ironhide’s alt mode, seemingly engaged in an animated discussion. Sam paid them no mind—he was too hot and too tired.

That afternoon was spent at the shooting range learning about the schematics of the M4 rifle. He ended up staying until almost seven o’clock, and by the time he made his way outside, Bumblebee and Cliffjumper were parked in front of the building. His chest constricted with affection at the sight of the two Autobots, and he brushed against them each in turn.

“Hey guys.” He murmured, making his way towards the Camaro.

Bumblebee opened his driver’s side door as he approached. “Good evening, Sam.”

It was only after he made to climb into the cab that he realized the two alt modes were filthy. Their usually glossy finishes were faded beneath a thin layer of dust and grime. Sam ran his hand over Bumblebee’s hood, fixing the Camaro with an inquiring look.

“What were you doing today?” He asked.

He felt a swell of wry exasperation from his bonded. “We were making alterations to the field firing range.”

Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, and Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him. As soon as he was settled, the Camaro accelerated towards the Hive. Cliffjumper followed behind them, maintaining a steady distance.

“Why the field firing range?” Sam asked curiously.

“Jazz insisted.” Bumblebee replied, taking the corner onto Britannia Way.

Sam frowned faintly, and the Camaro slowed as it approached the bunker. “Jazz? What does Jazz have to do with it?”

The outdoor firing range and the field firing range were largely Ironhide’s domain. Bluestreak, Kup, and Jolt occasionally assisted the weapon’s specialist with training and evaluation, but Jazz rarely worked with NEST soldiers outside the scope of SpecOps.

“For you.” Bumblebee replied, rolling through the large double-doors into the hangar, “He will be involved with your training at the end of August.”

Sam felt a sharp twist of trepidation in his gut. “What, why?”

Bumblebee pulled to a stop on the lift and Cliffjumper parked beside them a moment later. His bonded brushed across his mind, reassuring and supportive. “Lennox is tasked with training you to defend against human threats—Jazz and Ironhide will train you to defend against Decepticon combatants.” 

The trepidation in Sam’s gut tightened like a vice. “That sounds… foreboding.”

“You can do it.” Bumblebee replied loyally, “They will combine close quarters combat, rifle training, and infiltrator training.”

Sam grimaced deeply. “Wonderful."

The lift gave a little shudder, and then they began lowering through the floor.

“It is necessary.” Bumblebee returned seriously, “When Shockwave and Barricade attack, they will do so on all fronts—and they will be ruthless.” 

The note of grim certainty in Bumblebee’s voice caused Sam to shiver, despite the warmth in the cab. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the Decepticons made a move against them—they would never rest, not so long as Megatron was imprisoned on the island.

He was quiet as Bumblebee crossed the receiving room and accelerated down the bridge. The Camaro pulled to a stop in front of the North Quad entrance a few moments later. Sam opened the door and climbed out of the cab, before patting the Camaro’s hood.

“I’m going to get something to eat.” He said, shutting the door behind him, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Cliff and I are headed to the wash racks, and then I have a shift at the communications array.”

The communications array took a great of processing power, and as a result, Bumblebee was unable to use his holoform when he was on duty. Sam felt a pang of disappointment, but he pushed it aside with concerted effort. Bumblebee was a soldier with responsibilities that went far beyond their relationship.

“Let me come with you.” He said instead, surprising himself.

He felt a swell of _surprise_ and _confusion_ across their bond space. “To the communications array?”

“No, to the wash racks.” Sam said, pressing a hand against Bumblebee’s hood, “Do you have time?”

The winter-white glow at the edge of his mind brightened with affection. “Are you sure?”

Sam smiled faintly, touched by the question. Bumblebee always let Sam dictate the terms of their relationship.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Sam murmured, _bumping_ against the scout’s mental presence, “If you’ll have me.”

Bumblebee opened the driver’s side door in a silent invitation.

“Always.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warning:** Explicit sexual content.

The wash racks were located in West Quad, equidistant between the bridge entrance and the berthing hangars. Bumblebee slowed as he approached the large doors, which rumbled open of their own accord. They drove through the entryway, pulling to a stop a short distance from the opposite wall. The room was roughly circular in design, with nozzles set in one wall at varying heights and floor-to-ceiling cabinets against another. Otherwise, the room was empty.

Bumblebee opened the driver’s side door, and Sam climbed out of the car. The room was relatively cool, as was the rest of the Hive, but it was spacious and well lit. As Bee and Cliff transformed into their bipedal modes, Sam glanced around curiously. The floor was made of patterned metal, which sloped towards the far wall and transitioned to a thick grate beneath the nozzles. He turned back towards Bumblebee, who had lowered into a loose crouch beside him.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.” He admitted with a self-conscious smile.

“I’ll show you.” Bumblebee promised.

The yellow scout straightened up and made his way across the room. Sam trailed behind him, feeling out of place and unsure. A loud _clang_ caused Sam to glance over in time to see Cliffjumper shutting the cabinet doors. The scout had a bundle of cloth in his servos, which he carried over to the showerheads. Bumblebee adjusted a set of dials, presumably changing either the temperature or the concentration of the solvent, before he turned around to look at Sam.

“We can begin, if you’re ready.” He said.

Sam glanced down at himself uncertainly. “Am I supposed to get undressed?”

“You can if you want to.” Cliffjumper said, coming to stand beside Bumblebee, “Some of the NEST soldiers strip down to their underthings, but others stay clothed.”

Sam hesitated for a long moment. Bathing was an intimate experience among mechanoids, but it wasn’t _sexual._ It was an expression of trust and friendship—one that Bumblebee and Cliffjumper wanted to share with him. It was that thought that had him take a fortifying breath, before bending down to tug at his bootlaces.

Bumblebee crouched down beside him. _//There is no obligation, Sam. Your presence is enough.//_

“It’s fine.” Sam replied aloud with more confidence than he felt, “I don’t want to get my boots wet.”

Bumblebee watched him as he pulled off one boot and then the other, followed by his socks and, after a moment of indecision, his pants. Sam was left standing in his boxer shorts and long-sleeved shirt. He picked up his things, carrying them over to the cabinet and setting them neatly by the wall. The metal floor was cold against his feet, and Sam made a mental note to buy flip-flops if this was going to be an ongoing thing.

“Okay.” He said, coming to stand near the two Autobots, “So what now?”

By way of answer, Bumblebee reached up to the point where his pauldron met his shoulder joint and unfastened the metal plating with a twist of his servo. Sam watched, transfixed, as he pulled the armor away and placed on the floor. He repeated the process with his other pauldron, followed by his cuirass, vambraces, and grieves. Cliffjumper followed suit, removing his armor piece by piece and setting it aside. Sam’s heart skipped a beat as their protoforms were slowly revealed—the living metal was dark gray, almost black, with a silvery sheen that was visible whenever the light caught it just right. Sam stepped forward, reaching out to touch, and Bumblebee settled into a loose crouch in front of him. His optics were impossibly bright against the dark metal of his protoform face.

“Hello you.” Sam murmured, running his fingers across his chassis. The texture was softer and more pliant than his armor, and the metal was warm to the touch.

Bumblebee whistled at him, a soft _chirrupy_ sound that made Sam smile in earnest. He stepped closer, pressing his hand against his bonded’s spark casing. The blue light glowed between his fingers, warm and inviting and _alive_. Bumblebee raised a servo and pressed two digits against the back of his hand.

“It feels like I’m seeing you for the first time.” Sam said, angling his head to look up at him, “Like… really _seeing_ you.”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened with some indefinable emotion. He reached out, placing one broad servo against Sam’s back and pulling him closer. Sam stepped forward, settling into the space between his legs and bracing his hands against his knee joints.

“Are you ready?” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam knew what he was really asking—was he prepared for the smell of solvent and all the memories it would bring? It had been months since his rescue from the _Nemesis_. Megatron was in stasis-lock and only a handful of his soldiers remained loyal to his cause. Sam was safe, as safe as he had been since posting an eBay listing for his grandfather’s glasses all those years ago. He could do this. 

“Yeah.” He replied softly, “I think so.”

Cliffjumper _warbled_ at him encouragingly, before turning and activating the wash racks. Immediately, solvent began streaming from the nozzles set in the wall behind them. The liquid was pleasantly warm and almost oily to the touch. Sam took a steadying breath as he let it cascade over his chest. It smelled the same as it had on the _Nemesis_ —faint but sharp, like astringent.

“Don’t get any in your eyes.” Bumblebee warned.

Sam was unable to suppress the grimace that twisted his mouth. “Yeah, I know.”

His words were met with an answering swell of consternation, and Bumblebee’s digits tightened around his torso. “Sam—“

“It’s fine. Really.” He said, cutting his bonded off before he could apologize, “I’m going to need some direction, here. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Cliffjumper crouched down beside them, extending a bundle of cloth towards him. Sam accepted the material, and a quick inspection revealed that it was a square of metalmesh.

“We’ll show you.” Cliffjumper rumbled, resting his arms on his knee joints.

Sam gave the scout a small but sincere smile. “Thanks, Cliff.”

They began by washing their protoforms. Cliffjumper crouched on one side of Bumblebee, demonstrating how to cleanse the living metal. Sam watched him closely, fascinated by the way the Bumblebee’s protoform _rippled_ while they worked. He learned that its outer surface could peel away, revealing sensitive inner components. Cliffjumper’s servos were steady as he worked, and it was clear that he was intimately familiar with the contours of Bumblebee’s frame.

Surprisingly, that knowledge didn’t make Sam jealous in the least.

Sam ran his hands over Bumblebee’s chassis, enjoying the feel of living metal beneath his skin. His touch was met with a low, pleased rumble. He glanced up at Bumblebee’s face, only to find that his optics were half-shuttered. Sam turned his attention inwards, brushing against the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind. He was met with a thrum of _contentment_ that made his chest ache with affection. Acting on impulse, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the surface of Bumblebee’s spark chamber. 

“I should have done this years ago.” He murmured.

“You were always welcome.” Bee replied lowly.

Sam smiled, pressing his forehead against the living metal. “I know. Thanks for waiting for me.”

Bumblebee _chirruped_ something at him in Cybertronian, and although Sam didn’t recognize the glyph, he understood the sentiment. He leaned back to look up at his bonded, his smile curling even wider. “Yeah, right back at you.”

Sam drew the washcloth over Bumblebee’s protoform, washing away the grit and dust that had accumulated in the minute crevasses of the living metal. His hands roamed across its surface, memorizing every curve, every dip, every angle he encountered. When they were finished with Bumblebee, he and Sam began working on Cliffjumper. The other scout crouched down so that Sam could reach him. It was a deeply personal process, with Sam standing between his legs as Bumblebee leaned over them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt intimate and familiar in a way he would be hard-pressed to describe.

As he drew the metalmesh through the components of Cliff’s arm strut, he glanced up to see Bumblebee watching him. His bonded’s optics were preternaturally bright, and Sam felt a sudden flash of uncertainty.

 _//Is this alright?//_ He asked hesitantly.

Bumblebee’s expression grew fond. _//Yes, Sam. It’s alright.//_

Sam held the metalmesh under the stream of solvent, before returning to the task at hand. After he had cleaned the build-up out from beneath a bracket on Cliff’s forearm, he glanced up at Bumblebee again. His bonded was _chirring_ quietly as he worked, his posture loose and relaxed. Cliffjumper responded to the sound with a low, rumbling purr from deep inside his chassis. The sound of it warmed Sam from the inside out.

When they finished scrubbing the last of the grit from Cliffjumper’s components, they began on the armor. The hard metal was less sensitive than their protoforms, and the process was a great deal faster. Sam used a brush on the inside of the metal plating, scouring away any buildup he could find, before buffing the glossy finish with a square of metalmesh. As each piece was cleaned, it was picked up and fastened back into place. It wasn’t long before the two scouts were fully armored again.

Sam stared up at them, soaked through to the skin and smiling.

“That was… well, thanks for having me.”

Cliffjumper shut off the stream of solvent, before crossing the room towards the cabinets. At the same time, Bumblebee leaned down, trailing a single digit down the length of Sam’s spine. The familiar gesture caused him to shiver pleasantly from head to toe.

“Thank-you for joining us.” Bumblebee murmured softly, “It means a great deal.”

Cliffjumper returned with a large towel before Sam could reply. The scout draped it over his shoulders, pulling the ends together around him. His digits lingered for a moment on Sam’s chest, before he stepped away.

Sam grinned up at him, pulling the towel more closely around himself. “Thanks, Cliff.”

The red and black mechanoid whistled at him, and then he transformed into his alt mode. The Bugatti positively gleamed in the bright light of the wash racks. Bumblebee watched him transform, before turning back to Sam.

“We are due in communications shortly.” He said, almost apologetically, “I have time to drive you to North Quad.”

Sam scrubbed the towel through his hair and over his legs. “That’d be great, thanks. I’m starving.”

Bumblebee whistled an acknowledgement, before transforming in a flurry of shifting metal. As soon as his tires touched the ground, he popped open the driver’s side door. Sam gave him a pat on the hood and jogged over to pick up his things. He pulled his pants on first, followed by his boots, and then he shoved his socks in his back pocket. He didn’t bother lacing up his boots—he would change before he went to the mess hall.

He climbed into the Camaro, settling into the seat as the heat turned on and the door shut behind him. The warmth was pleasant after the cool air of the room. Bumblebee waited until he was comfortable, and then his engine rolled over and they accelerated into the hall, leaving the wash racks behind them.

* * *

The following weeks developed into a consistent routine, one that was challenging but not unpleasant.

He woke up at five o’clock every morning and hurried to get ready. He ate breakfast in his living room, and then he made his way to the PT grounds. He was rarely the first to arrive, but he was never the last. Lennox or Epps arrived at six o’clock, and then they began physical training. It went on for an hour or two, depending on whether anyone had incurred penalty miles the day before, and then they went to the outdoor shooting range until lunch.

Bluestreak observed Sam for several days, and then he began training him on shooting over distances. The gunner was a crackshot with a laser rifle, capable of hitting a target at four kilometers ten times out of ten. He taught Sam how to shoot while kneeling and lying prone—the latter improved his accuracy significantly. Bluestreak was silent while he was observing Sam or when he was demonstrating a shot, but otherwise he talked up a storm. Sam didn’t mind—he enjoyed listening to him.

The afternoons were spent either marching or, beginning in the fifth week, learning close quarters combat. Sam was nauseous with nerves on his first day—even the smallest recruit had three inches and forty pounds on him. Rather than pair him off with another recruit, however, Lennox announced that Sam would be partnering with Epps.

Sam stared at him, aghast. “What?” 

Epps folded his arms over his chest, smiling wide enough to show all of his teeth. “What do you mean _what_? I’m the CQC/CQB instructor.”

Lennox ordered the recruits to pair off and begin, leaving Sam at Epps’ mercy. To his genuine surprise, Epps didn’t pummel the shit out of him. Instead, the Sergeant began by explaining the different types of fighting styles.

“The US military has adopted the Modern Army Combatives as its hand-to-hand combat training style, and we will do the same.” He began, “It involves small, easily repeatable drills, such as escaping blows, maintaining and escaping a mounted grappling position, and maintaining control. As you progress in the program, we will add-in throws and takedowns, striking skills, and ground fighting.” 

Sam stared back at him, torn between disbelief and gallows humor. “You expect me to throw you? With what? A _crane_?”

“’All I need is a lever and a fulcrum, and I can move the world.’” Epps quoted with a grin, “It’s all about leverage and momentum.”

Sam sighed resignedly. “Yeah, alright. Please don’t break my spine.”

They began with the basics—learning foot position and hand holds. Sam learned that it was important to keep an attacker’s arm extended whenever possible, since it would throw off their grip and balance. He also learned the difference between a grab, a lock, a choke, and a strike with the assistance of two recruits who demonstrated each concept for him.

Epps explained that he wasn’t learning close-quarters combat, so much as he was learning self-defense. His goal was to incapacitate an opponent as quickly as possible and use any opening to his advantage in order to escape. To that end, Sam spent the rest of the afternoon learning how to break a grip. There was more to it than he realized, but Epps walked him through the drills with increasing speed until he was able to break a wrist grip both single-handed and double-handed. By the time that Lennox ordered them to return to the mess hall for supper, Sam was feeling quietly optimistic about his performance.

His confidence lasted for four days, at which time Epps put him down hard enough to drive the breath out of him. He laid on the ground, gasping for air and reasonably sure he was about to die, when Epps pinned him with a sardonic look.

“And what did we learn?” He asked dryly.

Sam moaned raggedly, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. “Oh my God.”

“Come on, get up.” Epps instructed, extending a hand towards him. Sam stared at his hand balefully, before he grudgingly accepted it. Epps hauled him to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. It was all Sam could do to keep from collapsing back onto the ground.

They progressed from breaking grips, to breaking locks, and then to escaping blows. Epps began the drill at a slow pace, gradually increasing his speed until Sam could complete the exercise in real time. However, unlike the grips and the locks, Epps didn’t pull his punches. If Sam failed to dodge or redirect the blow, then he paid the price for it. 

That night was the first time he needed to ice the bruises that peppered his body. He sat on his bed, stripped down to his boxer shorts and eyes half-lidded, as he pressed an icepack against his side. The cold leeching into his skin was a blessed relief from the hot throbbing of his ribs. Bumblebee sat beside him, his mental presence quietly sympathetic, while Ratchet stared down at him with his lips pressed in a thin, disapproving line.

“Here.” He said, extending two white tablets towards him, “It’s an anti-inflammatory. It should help with the swelling.”

Sam accepted the tablets without a word, swallowing them dry. They stuck in his throat the whole way down.

Ratchet regarded him with a closed-off expression on his face. Eventually, he turned on his heel and stalked into the bathroom. Sam watched him go, and a moment later, he heard the sound of the tap turning on. He glanced down at himself, and after a cursory examination, he moved the coldpack to his other side. The movement caused him to grimace in pain, but the cold was a relief.

“Drink this.” Ratchet said as he walked back into the bedroom. The medic extended him a tall glass, which Sam accepted with murmured thanks, “Try to stay hydrated. It will help with the delayed onset muscle soreness.” 

Sam took a sip of water, washing away the bitter taste of the pills, before setting the glass on the bedside table.

“Thanks Ratchet.” He rasped.

The medic made a disgruntled noise, deep in his throat. “Have a hot shower and go to bed. You’ll need to be well rested if you’re to continue with this lunacy.”

With that, Ratchet’s holoform fizzled and disappeared. 

Sam stared at the spot where he had been standing for a long while, and then he heaved a heavy sigh. He could feel the medic’s agitation across their bond space—it frothed and roiled, like a storm surge. Yet, despite that, Ratchet hadn’t been any more acerbic or cutting than usual. He was irritated, yes, and concerned, but Sam knew that his ire wasn’t directed towards him.

“Lay down.” Bumblebee murmured, shifting aside to make room, “Come on.”

Sam obliged him, laying back against the mattress with a groan. He was sore from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet—Epps had worked him over for two hours, and he hadn’t been playing around.

“Even my hair hurts.” Sam complained, pressing the coldpack against his ribs.

“I saw the footage.” Bumblebee replied, picking up Sam’s foot and resting it in his lap, “You’re improving.”

Sam scoffed softly, but there was no heat in it. “He threw me around that gym like a ragdoll.”

Bumblebee began kneading the arch of Sam’s foot with his thumbs. It was pressure bordering on pain, but it felt good. “You need to learn how to take a fall.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Sam muttered, “Epps told me so—every time he pinned me to the mat.”

Bumblebee rubbed his thumbs into the arch of Sam’s foot. “You’ll get there.”

“Oh yeah? In how many pieces?” Sam asked sarcastically.

Bumblebee made a shushing sound. “Close your eyes and relax. Let me help you.”

Sam grumbled to himself, but he obliged him all the same. Bumblebee massaged one foot and then the other, alternating between deep pressure and gentle massage. He moved onto his calves next, and Sam couldn’t prevent the groan of relief as he dug his thumbs into the knotted muscle he found there. The holoform worked his way up Sam’s legs, occasionally smoothing his hands down to his ankles and back up again. When he reached his thighs, he urged Sam to roll onto his belly. Sam obeyed him without thinking, tucking his face into the mattress as Bumblebee started on his glutes. His touch was clinical and chaste, but Sam couldn’t help the sound that stuttered out of him as Bumblebee pressed his thumbs into the meat of his ass.

He felt a flash of amusement from across their bond.

“If you’re very good for me, then I’ll get you off when I’m finished.” Bumblebee murmured.

His tone was pleasant, almost teasing, but Sam knew it wasn’t an idle promise. The knowledge made his dick twitch with interest.

“Oh?” He asked, breathlessly.

Bumblebee hummed at him considerately. “Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead into the mattress. The holoform seemed to be lingering at the point where his thighs met his ass, and he was positive that it wasn’t a coincidence. His cock was thickening now, having taken a keen interest in the proceedings, and Sam had to resist the urge to grind against the mattress. Bumblebee chuckled quietly, moving on to the small of his back. The holoform’s touch alternated between firm and light, almost ticklish, and he worked the muscles in Sam’s back with the precision of a veteran masseuse. When he got to Sam’s shoulders, Sam ducked his head to give him better access. Bumblebee massaged his trapezius and, upon finding a knot, he squeezed with enough pressure to make Sam grunt.

Bumblebee brushed against his mind in a quiet apology.

He worked the knot with deft fingers, squeezing and kneading, until it finally released. He continued the massage for an interminable time, but when he finished, he made no move to stop touching him. Bumblebee ghosted his hands over Sam’s sides and across his flanks, tracing invisible patterns with his fingertips. He shifted forward to card his fingers through Sam’s hair, grazing his scalp with his nails, and Sam shivered from head to toe. He couldn’t prevent the soft sounds of pleasure that escaped him—he didn’t even try—and Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with every breathy moan and whimper.

When he trailed his fingernails down the length of Sam’s spine, eliciting a soft sigh, Bumblebee leaned forward to nuzzle against the side of his neck.

“Good boy.” He murmured.

Sam raised his head, slanting a look at the holoform. “Yeah?”

Bumblebee’s smile sharpened, and he ghosted a hand over the swell of Sam’s ass. “Yes.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat and then it picked up in double-time. “So what do I get?”

Bumblebee chuckled at him, pushing meaningfully against his side. Sam needed no further encouragement, and he rolled onto his back without a word. The holoform climbed over Sam’s legs to settle in the space between his knees, and then he palmed Sam’s cock through his boxers.

“I have a few ideas.” He said considerately.

Sam groaned softly, lifting his hips to press against his hand. “You and me both.” 

The holoform hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sam’s boxers, and pulled the material down to his thighs. His erection was half-hard, and Bumblebee took it in hand, suckling at his frenulum to get his body caught up with the program, and then he swallowed him down. Sam moaned raggedly, fisting his hands in the bedsheets as Bumblebee bobbed against him. It was all wet heat and suction, and it took every ounce of Sam’s self-control to keep from thrusting into his mouth.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee paused, glancing up at him.

“You can, you know.” He murmured, swirling his tongue around the head of Sam’s cock, “You won’t hurt me.”

Sam stared down at him, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

Bumblebee’s expression became knowing, and he leaned forward to purr, “Would you like to fuck my mouth, Sam?”

His tone of voice was utterly filthy, and it made Sam’s balls tighten up with arousal.

“Are you sure?” He asked, breathlessly, “I wouldn’t want… I mean, would I—“

Bumblebee chuckled, low and indecent, and took Sam’s cock in his mouth again.

 _//Go on.//_ He murmured, giving Sam a mental nudge, _//Take what you want.//_

Sam choked on a whimper, giving his hips an experimental thrust. Bumblebee hallowed his cheeks, working the underside of Sam’s cock with his tongue, and that was all the encouragement he needed. Sam braced his feet against the mattress, thrusting into the holoform’s mouth. He could feel Bumblebee’s approval, his permission, and Sam just _went for it_. The holoform hummed around his cock, and Sam cried out at the intensity of sensation.

“Oh my God.” Sam moaned raggedly, “ _Ohmygod.”_

Bumblebee began massaging his testicles with one hand and his perineum with the other.

 _//Do you like that?//_ He asked, his tone equally pleased and predatory, _//Fucking my mouth?//_ When Sam didn’t reply immediately, Bumblebee gave his testicles a warning squeeze, _//Answer me.//_

“Yes, oh my God, yes.” Sam babbled in reply, his hands fisting in the bedsheets to give himself more leverage.

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with approval. _//I can tell. I enjoy seeing you this way—as no one else can see you, only me.//_

“Only you.” Sam agreed desperately, “Only you, Bumblebee.”

The holoform rewarded him by rubbing a knuckle into his perineum, causing sparks of pleasure to skitter up his spine. Every time that Sam thrust up, Bumblebee suckled at his cock. The combination of wet heat, silky pressure, and suction had Sam moaning raggedly before long.

“I’m close.” He choked out, “Oh my God, Bee, I’m so close.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence sharpened perceptibly, and he crowded forward into Sam’s mind.

 _//If you enjoy fucking my mouth, imagine how much you’d enjoy fucking_ me. _//_ Bumblebee rumbled.

Sam threw back his head and moaned, bone-deep and guttural, as his orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. Bumblebee gave a pleased little hum, swallowing his release as he coaxed the tremors out of him. Sam whimpered, going boneless and limp against the mattress, and Bumblebee let him go, turning his head to press a kiss against the inside of his thigh. 

It took a minute before Sam caught his breath, and when he did, he slanted open his eyes to look at the holoform.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He rasped.

Bumblebee chuckled, climbing up to lay down beside him. He pressed a chaste kiss against Sam’s forehead, his expression openly fond.

“You enjoyed it.”

Sam laughed with helpless affection. “Well, yeah, obviously.”

“I meant it, you know.” Bumblebee said, “You can have sex with me, if you’d like.”

Sam tucked an arm under his head and stared at him considerately. “Are you sure? I know you don’t enjoy physical touch like I do.”

The holoform rolled his eyes, his expression all wry humor. “I may not _experience_ physical touch as you do, but I enjoy it all the same.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, tilting his head, “Like, sexually?”

“Not sexually, no.” Bumblebee replied, “I do not have a prostate, for example, but I feel what you feel through the bond. It’s pleasurable in its own right.”

Sam considered his response for a moment longer, before smiling faintly. “We could try it sometime. I mean, if you wanted.”

Bumblebee clasped the side of his face, nuzzling against his sweaty curls. “I already told you—I enjoy seeing you as no one else sees you.”

Sam lifted his hips off the mattress, pulling his boxers back up before settling down again. Bumblebee reached for the blankets, twitching them over their legs before draping an arm across Sam’s chest. Sam made a contended sound and interlaced their fingers together. Bumblebee’s thumb stroked across his knuckles, gentle and affectionate.

“You’re getting callouses.” He murmured, turning Sam’s hand over in his own.

“It’s the trigger guard.” Sam replied, shifting against the mattress as he got comfortable, “I’m firing over five hundred rounds a day.”

Bumblebee pressed a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I’m aware. Bluestreak has been keeping me informed. He is pleased by your progress—as are Lennox and Ironhide.”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a wry smile. “Well, that’s good. It’s better than the alternative.”

“Ironhide intends for you to begin on the field firing range next week.” Bumblebee continued, “Are you looking forward to it?”

Sam made a sleepy sound of agreement. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Bumblebee must have sensed that he was drifting off, for he pulled the blankets up to Sam’s chest and pressed another kiss against the swell of his shoulder. “Do you want to shower before you go to sleep?”

“I’ll shower in the morning.” Sam grumbled in reply, “No more talking—I’m tired.”

Bumblebee chuckled quietly, wrapping an arm around Sam’s waist and pulling him closer. “Good-night, Sam.”

Sam sighed contentedly. He was comfortable from head to toe—he’d be sore in the morning, perhaps, but that was future Sam’s problem. At that moment, all was well with the world.

“Night, Bee.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sam was awake at five o’clock the following Monday. He stumbled around his apartment, half-asleep and grumpy, as he hurried to get ready. Wheeljack had asked him to come to his lab the night before, and he would need to rush if he didn’t want to be late for physical training. Kelley had been late on Friday, and Sam’s calves still ached from the additional five miles that Lennox had added to their afternoon march. 

When he was finally ready, Sam grabbed a granola bar and left the apartment. The North Quad was quiet, given the hour, and his bootsteps was the only sound to be heard until he neared the bridge entrance. 

“Sam, Sam wait up!”

Sam half-turned, glancing over his shoulder to see Dave Carter jogging towards him. The older man was freshly shaved and dressed in a perfectly pressed suit, despite the time. Sam stopped long enough for Carter to catch up with him, and then they continued towards the bridge.

“I was hoping to see you this morning.” Carter said, opening one of the file folders he was carrying and pulling out a piece of paper, “Here—this is your schedule for the fall.”

Sam accepted the paper, glancing down at it as they approached North Quad entrance. It was printout of an [Outlook Calendar](https://i.ibb.co/mF0GMPL/Sam-s-schedule.jpg), and his mouth twisted with a grimace at the sight. His days were packed from eight o’clock in the morning until five o’clock in the evening.

“Super.” He muttered sarcastically.

Carter gave him a good-natured smile. “You’ve been registered for five courses, four of which were on your list and the fifth I chose in conjunction with your academic advisor. It was the only course with seats still available for freshmen.”

Sam’s eyes roved over the page as he looked for course titles. It only took a moment to find them, and he was pleasantly surprised when he did. He had been hoping to get a seat in _Democracy in Crisis_ and _Media, Culture and Society_. He was less enthusiastic about the other courses, but they were required for his major.

“Three of the five courses are being offered asynchronously, so I’ve blocked three hours apiece for them. The other two courses are being offered mixed synchronously/asynchronously.” Carter explained.

“Thank-you.” Sam said, stepping through the North Quad entrance. The bridge was largely deserted, except for the occasional tired-looking administrative staff shuffling down the tunnel. 

“You’re welcome.” Carter replied, following behind him, “The remainder of your schedule is subject to change. I have included you in the senior staff meetings and officer’s briefs, but Prime has stressed that your attendance is optional.”

Sam’s eyes were drawn back to the schedule. There were sections blocked out for senior staff meetings, at both Diego Garcia and the embassy, as well as two senior officer’s briefings. There was also an hour booked for ‘Prime & Witwicky’ and another for ‘Witwicky & Anderson’ on Friday.

“I’ve tried to leave Tuesdays and Thursdays available, but it wasn’t always possible.” Carter added apologetically.

Sam couldn’t resist the temptation to roll his eyes. Lennox had been adamant that Sam dedicate eight hours per week to refining the skills he was learning over the summer. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to attending all-day meetings after getting his ass handed to him in the gym. On the plus side, he was being granted unrestricted access to the firing range after his training was complete. 

“That’s okay, thanks Carter.” He replied.

The older man handed him a thick manila folder, which Sam opened to find the course syllabus from _COMM 1B – Media, Culture, and Society_ staring back at him.

“This folder contains your course syllabi, registration packet, and supplementary readings.” Carter explained, before adding, “I’ve ordered your textbooks as well. They’re expected to arrive at the end of August.”

Sam glanced up at him with a smile. “You work fast.”

The older man chuckled good-naturedly. “It’s my job.”

Sam closed the folder, tucking it under one arm as he unwrapped his granola bar. “Congratulations, by the way. I heard that it’s finally official.”

Prime had issued a memo two weeks earlier indicating that Carter’s title was being changed to Chief of Staff. It had caused quite the furor on the evening news, with some news outlets questioning the wisdom of appointing an American as the Autobot's Chief of Staff, while others held up the appointment as evidence that the relationship between Diego Garcia and the United States had not been irreparably damaged by Bishop’s actions.

Carter inclined his head, accepting the felicitations. “Thanks, Sam. It’s just a title change—my duties are remaining the same.”

Sam took a bite of the granola bar and flashed a lop-sided grin.

“Does it at least come with a pay raise?” He asked.

“The terms of my contract were renegotiated.” Carter replied, vague and professional, as he came to a stop near the entrance to the receiving room, “Where are you headed?”

Sam gestured meaningfully down the length of the tunnel. “I’m due in Wheeljack’s lab.”

“Ah.” Carter replied, his mouth tucking in as it did when he was trying not to smile, “Well then, good luck. I’m expected at Administration.”

Sam waved him off as he continued in the direction of East Quad. The pedestrian traffic increased as he walked as the evening shift was replaced by the morning shift. He finished his granola bar as the broad, blue doors of the research division came into sight. He pressed his identification badge against the scanner set in the wall, and when the light blinked green, he pulled open the door. The East Quad was all gleaming white corridors and self-contained laboratory space. He glanced through the glass walls as he passed, but most of the labs were dark and quiet.

He turned a corner and then another before Wheeljack’s lab came into sight. The hangar doors were wide open, and Sam could hear the occasional thump and clang of metal as he approached. The large space was virtually unchanged from the first time that Sam had seen it, all those years ago. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving that contained an assortment of Cybertronian and Terran technology, all in various states of disassembly. The center of the room contained long rows of workbenches, each adorned with its own equipment or experiment. 

One change, Sam noted with amusement as he stepped fully into the room, was the Post-It notes. The yellow leaflets were contained to the left side of the room, where Wheeljack’s experiments resided. The right side of the room, where Perceptor worked, was meticulously clean and free of clutter.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the two research builds stepped into view on the opposite side of the hangar. Wheeljack’s audial fins brightened to sunshine yellow at the sight of him, and he bounded forward on his double-jointed legs. Perceptor trailed behind him, carrying a bundle of material in his servos.

“Sam! Hello, hello!” Wheeljack chirped, coming to a stop in front of him, “How are you?”

Sam smiled at the engineer, who was swaying back and forth on his pedes. “Hey, Jack. I’m good. Whatcha working on today?”

“Well, we’re working on you, of course!” Wheeljack replied.

Sam stared blankly back at him. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“Good morning, Sam.” Perceptor rumbled as he approached, “Thank-you for joining us.”

“Hey Percy.” Sam said, cautiously, “What’s up?”

By way of answer, the taller research build extended his servos towards him. Sam stepped forward, glancing down at the bundle held in his hands. The material was charcoal black with faint lines embroidered all over it. Sam stared at the material for a moment longer, before looking up at Perceptor with a question written all over his face. “…What is it?”

“It’s your armor.” Perceptor replied, motioning meaningfully with his servos, “By orders of our Prime.”

Sam frowned faintly, accepting the bundle from the scientist. The material was heavier and thicker than it looked, but it was as soft as metalmesh.

“Um… thanks?” Sam managed, unsure what else to say.

Perceptor’s optics brightened with ill-concealed amusement. “Would you care to try it on? We have your measurements, but we must verify the fit.”

“What, right now?” Sam asked, glancing up in surprise.

“If you would be so kind.” Perceptor replied.

Sam’s face warmed with embarrassment. “I need to be topside for six o’clock.”

Perceptor waved his servo, as though brushing his protest aside. “Lennox has already been briefed. You’re excused from physical training for the morning.”

Sam resisted the flare of annoyance at the scientist’s words. If he had known that he wasn’t expected on the PT grounds for six o’clock, he would have slept in.

“You will need it for this afternoon.” Perceptor said, interrupting Sam’s thoughts, “Ratchet has insisted.”

Sam sighed heavily in reply. The platoon had walked the field firing range on Friday, first as a group and then again in pairs. The range was an obstacle course the size of a football field with hills, trenches, dugouts, and ponds meant to simulate varied terrain. The platoon was doing its first run with live ammunition after lunch.

“Alright.” Sam conceded, knowing better than to argue against Ratchet’s orders, “Fine.”

He walked over to the nearest bench, placing the bundle on its smooth surface before bending over to tug at his bootlaces. When he finished, he pulled them off, one by one, and then straightened back up. “Alright, what first?”

Perceptor shook his helm minutely. “You must strip down. This armor isn’t meant to be worn over clothing.”

Sam glanced up at the engineer in surprise. “That doesn’t sound very practical. What if I need to get armored in a hurry?”

“Then you must get undressed in a hurry.” Perceptor replied dryly.

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown as he regarded the bundle of material. “I don’t understand. I used to have armor that was worn over clothing—I wore it on patrols.”

“Ah, I see.” Perceptor rumbled, “That armor is intended to withstand percussive and ballistic force from a distance. It is not intended for close-quarters combat conditions.”

Sam sighed in resignation as he reached for the zipper of his pants. “Do I need to lose my boxers, too? Because if so, you’re going to need to turn around.”

Wheeljack turned to regard Perceptor, his audial fins deepening to tangerine-orange.

“Humans are reserved about physical modesty.” He explained, with the air of someone who had solved a difficult puzzle and was keen to pass along their insight, “Nakedness is often offensive.”

Perceptor tilted his helm, a considerate sounding _hum_ emanating from his vocalizer.

“How peculiar.” He replied, “The sight of their flesh is not repulsive.”

Wheeljack bobbed his head in agreement. “It is complicated further by gender norms and societal customs. I have done a great deal of research on the subject.”

Sam looked from one engineer to the other in rapidly building exasperation.

“I am standing _right here._ ” He put in, before either of them could continue, “You two can see me, right?”

Wheeljack turned to regard him, his audial fins brightening in surprise. “Of course we can see you. I haven’t activated the particle dampener.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut and took a deep, fortifying breath.

“Particle dampener?”

“A prototype.” Perceptor explained patiently, “The technology is based off Mirage’s holo-emitter.”

Sam stared at the armor with a great deal more trepidation. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“It won’t explode, if that’s what you’re asking.” Perceptor replied, canting his helm.

“It’s really, really not.” Sam grumbled, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it off over his head, “Do I need to lose my boxers or what?”

Perceptor looked him up and down, before shaking his helm minutely. “Your underthings are fine.”

Sam stripped down to his boxers and socks, and then Wheeljack handed him a bundle of silvery material that turned out to be a form-fitting undergarment. It covered his entire body, except for his head, hands, and feet. He twisted experimentally and found that the material afforded him a wide range of movement.

Perceptor watched him with sharp optics. “How does it feel?”

“Okay, I guess.” Sam replied.

Perceptor nodded in approval, before handing him the armor. It was a charcoal-colored body suit, which included gloves and boots. The material extended up his neck almost all the way to his jawline. Perceptor helped him fasten the straps around his back, and then he stepped back to survey his handiwork. The two engineers clicked to one another in Cybertronian, although what they were saying was beyond him. Sam could see now that the surface of the armor was covered in thin, silvery lines, like spider webs, that spread out in fractal patterns all the way down his body. It reminded him of the Cube’s design, before it had been destroyed.

“What do you think?” Perceptor asked.

“I think I look like I’m LARPing as the Black Panther.” Sam replied dryly.

Perceptor either caught the reference or he understood that Sam was being facetious. The scientist stepped forward, running his servos over Sam’s torso and pinching the fabric between his digits.

“The plackart is loose, but I hesitate to take it in.” He murmured.

“It would restrict his range of movement.” Wheeljack agreed.

“Is it comfortable?” Perceptor asked, directing his question towards Sam.

Sam folded his arms over his chest and rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

“It’s fine.” He replied, before adding, “Taking it off to use the bathroom is going to be a pain, though.”

Perceptor’s optics spiraled open and his plating flared, as though in alarm.

“Oh dear. That does represent a problem.” He murmured.

“We could develop a maximum absorbency garment.” Wheeljack chirped in reply, and Perceptor stroked his chin thoughtfully, “We would need to let out the fauld and tasset to make room.”

Sam looked from Wheeljack to Perceptor, and back again.

“A maximum absorb--… wait, are you talking about a _diaper_?” He spluttered.

Wheeljack looked taken aback by his question. “That is grossly reductive. NASA astronauts use a—“

“No.” Sam interrupted, shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Figure something else out.”

“Are you certain?” Perceptor asked, canting his helm, “It would be a great deal simpler.”

“I am absolutely, one hundred percent certain.” Sam replied with feeling.

The scientist ex-vented a quiet sigh. “Well, if you insist. It does no good to design equipment that you won’t use.”

Satisfied, Sam twisted his torso, before dropping into a loose crouch and standing up again.

“Well, at least it’s comfortable.” He observed.

Wheeljack bobbed up and down on his pedes as his audial fins brightened to sunshine yellow. “It was developed with human design tolerances in mind.”

Sam propped one hand on his hip and gave the engineer a skeptical look. “Human design tolerances?”

“Of course.” Wheeljack replied, “It will keep you cool, when the ambient temperature rises, and it will keep you warm when it lowers. It is even possible for you to survive in the vacuum of space for a breem or two. Well, theoretically, that is. We haven’t tested it yet.”

Sam laughed at the consternation in Wheeljack’s voice. “Don’t sweat it, Jack. I’m not going into space.”

The researcher canted his helm, as though in confusion, but Perceptor interrupted him before he could reply.

“We are developing an assortment of equipment for your use.” He rumbled, “This is the tactical armor, intended for close quarters combat, but we are also developing body armor for you to wear under your clothing. It will protect you from human weaponry—knives, handguns, rifles—and it will afford some protection against percussive blasts and extreme temperature.” 

Sam frowned faintly in response. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Perhaps not.” Perceptor conceded, “But we are unwilling to take risks where your safety is concerned.”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the stark honesty in his voice.

“Oh, well… thanks, I guess.” He replied. “Is that all? Can I take this off now?”

Perceptor shook his helm, before stepping forward and picking up a small contraption from the table. It looked like a heftier version of an N-95 mask, but it was the same color as his suit.

“Try this on.” He instructed, extending the device towards him.

Sam accepted it, turning it over in his hands.

“What is it?” He asked, curiously. The device was charcoal black and surprisingly lightweight, with a soft ridge around its outer edge.

“It is an environmental mask.” Perceptor answered.

Sam looked up at him, suddenly wary. “What does it do?”

“The science is complicated.” Perceptor replied, “I can go into specifics if you wish.”

“Uh, no. That’s okay. A cliffnotes version is fine.” Sam said.

Perceptor’s expression warmed with good humor. “It has a dual function—it filters contaminants and, in a vacuum, it cycles your breath into breathable oxygen.”

Sam’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline. “Hey, that’s pretty cool.”

Wheeljack’s audial fins brightened in alarm. “It should not be.”

It took Sam a moment to understand his meaning, and when he did, he laughed lightly.

“No, Jack, I meant it’s neat.” He replied, before quirking an eyebrow at Perceptor, “Is this going to blow up in my face?”

“No, Sam. The respirator poses no threat to you.” Perceptor replied.

With that assurance, Sam affixed the mask over his nose and mouth. As soon as it was in place, the mask formed an airtight seal, melding to his face. Sam jerked back in surprise and alarm, his hands flying instinctively to the straps, but Perceptor was faster. The scientist caught him by the wrists, holding him firmly but gently. 

“You’re alright, Sam.” He soothed, “Take a deep breath.”

Sam’s heart was lodged in his throat, but he obeyed, breathing from the very bottom of his belly. The air was cool and smelled faintly of ozone. He took another breath, and then another, and the claustrophobic feeling slowly faded away. 

“This is so weird.” Sam said, and his voice came out flat-sounding and metallic, “Oh my God, that’s weird too.”

Perceptor chuckled and released his wrists. “Is it comfortable? Does it pinch anywhere?”

Sam raised a hand, running it over the mask. The silicone-like material extended over the lower portion of face, from the underside of his jaw, around to his ears, and over the bridge of his nose. He opened and closed his mouth, worked his jaw, and scrunched his nose—the seal was airtight, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“Yeah, it’s alright.” He slowly replied. 

“I am glad to hear it.” Perceptor said, “You will need to become accustomed to it.”

Sam took another deep breath, before releasing it slowly.

“How do I take it off?” He asked.

“It’s a two-step process with a fail-safe.” Perceptor explained, stepping forward to show him, “Humans who panic while wearing respirators are prone to remove them. As you can imagine, such a response could prove fatal, depending on the environment.”

The scientist demonstrated how to release the seal and disengage the fail-safe, and the mask came off without issue. Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, before glancing up at him.

“How long does it work?” He asked.

“I do not understand.” Perceptor replied, tilting his head quizzically, “Please restate your question.”

Sam gestured meaningfully with the respirator. “How long does it work? How long can I breathe with it on?”

“Ah, I see.” Percy replied, “The respirator is a self-contained system, so unless there is damage or malfunction, it will operate indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely, huh?” Sam asked, handing the mask over when prompted, “Can I eat or drink while wearing it?”

Perceptor shook his helm as he placed the mask on a nearby workbench.

“No, you cannot. The system requires an air-tight seal to remain effective.”

Sam huffed an uncomfortable laugh and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well, then ‘indefinitely’ has an upper maximum of about three days.” Sam replied, “After that, humans die of dehydration.”

Wheeljack whistled in concern, but Perceptor merely inclined his helm in acknowledgement.

“We are working to develop an advanced model, but it will take time. Human physiology is complicated.”

Sam laughed as he began unfastening the tactical armor. “That’s rich, coming from a walking miracle of robotics.” 

Perceptor chuckled as he helped Sam out of the suit. “I take your point.”

The tactical armor was removed first, followed by the body suit. Sam handed each item to Perceptor, who carried them over to a nearby workbench. Sam grabbed his shirt off the floor, getting dressed as quickly as possible.

“We will make the necessary adjustments.” Perceptor told him, “It should be ready in time for your training this afternoon.”

“Neat.” Sam said, bending over to lace up his boots, “I already stand out like a sore thumb, what’s a little alien tactical armor added to the mix?”

As he straightened up, he realized that Wheeljack was watching him closely. The engineer shifted his weight from pede to pede, an unusually emotive expression on his face. Sam tilted his head, frowning faintly in concern.

“What’s up, Jack?” He asked.

Wheeljack whistled softly, a long, rolling note that Sam could almost feel in his back teeth.

“I am… glad to see you.” He murmured, crouching down so that they were at eye-level with one another, “You have been missed.”

Sam’s face softened with affection. “I missed you too, pal. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately.”

The engineer reached out, pressing a single digit against the center of Sam’s chest. “You owe me nothing, least of all an apology.”

There was something sorrowful about his tone, which was at odds with the engineer’s usual enthusiastic demeanor. It made Sam’s breath hitch in his throat. He reached out, wrapping his hand around the digit and giving it a little squeeze.

“Hey, c’mon. It’s alright.” He murmured, “Cheer up, buttercup.”

Wheeljack tilted his helm, his optics spiraling down as though in thought. A moment later, his audial fins swirled with sea-foam green. 

“Buttercup—both a term of endearment and a poisonous weed.” He replied at last, “How apt.”

Sam might have been upset, but the engineer’s tone was wry, so he rolled his eyes instead.

“Don’t be a drama queen.” He said, giving Wheeljack a little shove.

The engineer didn’t move an inch, but his audial fins brightened to sunshine yellow. It was the only warning that Sam got before Wheeljack reached out, shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling backwards.

Sam recovered quickly, casting an incredulous look at the engineer. Wheeljack beamed at him, his earlier dejection seemingly forgotten.

“Are we… _roughhousing_?” He asked.

Sam rubbed his shoulder with a grimace. “Are we _what_?”

The engineer leaned all the way into Sam’s personal space, his expression earnest and searching.

“I have observed NEST soldiers engaging in physical boisterousness.” He explained, although it did little to alleviate Sam’s confusion, “I have been informed that this behavior is referred to as roughhousing. Subsequent research has indicated that it is a form of social bonding.”

Sam huffed a disbelieving breath as he took a step back. “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

Wheeljack’s audial fins perked up and he _chirruped_ in response.

“How marvelously tactile.” He said, turning to look at Perceptor, “Did you see? We’re bonding.”

Perceptor warbled something in reply without looking up from his work. Wheeljack turned back around, his mandibles clicking in good humor.

“I wish we could continue to engage in socially sanctioned aggression, but I must return to my work.” He said, apologetically, “Will you return this afternoon for the armor?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s up to Lennox.”

Wheeljack whistled something in Cybertronian, an acknowledgement, perhaps, and then he returned to his workbench.

“Good-bye, Sam.” He called over his shoulder.

Sam shook his head in fond exasperation. “See you later, guys.”

* * *

After Sam left East Quad, he made his way topside in search of the platoon. As he stepped into the early morning sunshine, he turned his attention inwards and reached for the gun-smoke gray spark signature at the edge of his awareness.

 _//Where does Lennox want me?//_ He asked without preamble.

Ironhide’s attention focused on him a moment later. _//The beach. Ten minutes.//_

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but he started off towards the bay without complaint. The beach was a long stretch of white sand that extended from Eclipse Point to Marianne Point. It was a short distance from both the PT grounds and the outdoor firing range. As such, it was often used to add an element of difficulty to their close-quarters combat training.

Sam stayed to the side of the road as he walked. The downtown area was bustling with both vehicle and pedestrian traffic. He nodded to the soldiers and support staff that he passed, replying to their polite greetings on rote. He took Britannia Way all the way down, before crossing the lawn near the dining facilities. The staff were already setting up the tables and chairs on the patio, even though it was just past nine o’clock. As he crested the rise overlooking the water, he caught sight of the platoon standing on the beach. The recruits had paired off, and they were listening attentively to whatever Lennox was telling them. 

Sam made his way down the bank and onto the beach. The air was cool coming off the water, and despite the air temperature, it was comfortable outside. Lennox gestured him over as soon as he approached.

“You’re with Morrison this morning.” He said as soon as Sam was within earshot, “Firearm disarmament.”

Sam turned to look at Morrison, who was grinning at him in return.

“Ready for round two?” The older man asked dryly.

Sam had sparred with Morrison on Friday, and the former Royal Marine had wiped the floor with him.

“Yeah, I guess.” He said as he moved to stand in front of him, “Be gentle.”

Lennox handed Morrison a training gun, before stepping back and folding his arms across his chest.

“Begin.” He instructed.

Sam spread his legs until his feet were shoulder width apart, and then he nodded to Morrison. A moment later, the training gun was being shoved into his face.

“Get on the ground!” Morrison barked, “Get on the ground now!”

Sam slowly held up his hands, affecting an nonthreatening posture.

“Don’t shoot. I’ll do whatever you want.” He replied, calm and composed as he shifted forward, “Please… don’t hurt me.”

It was a practiced script, one that Lennox had made him recite again and again until he could say the words without thinking. As soon as he was within striking range, Sam grabbed the barrel of the gun with his left hand, leaning out of the line of fire as he struck Morrison’s wrist with his right hand. Before he could disarm the older man, however, Lennox stepped forward.

“Stop.” He called out, and both Sam and Morrison froze in place, “What’s wrong with your stance, Sam?”

Sam glanced down, his brow furrowing in confusion, until he realized where he was standing.

“I’m too close to his front leg.” He dutifully replied.

Lennox nodded faintly. “Alright, back in position. Try again.”

They ran the drill three more times, Lennox stopping them to point out mistakes or to adjust Sam’s grip, before he finally let Sam disarm the weapon. As soon as he had the gun, Sam stepped back a pace and assumed a Weaver stance. He leveled the gun directly at Morrison’s center mass.

Lennox circled around him, his hands clasped behind his back as he scrutinized Sam’s posture.

“Good.” He said, nodding permissively, “Go.”

Sam brought the gun up and barked out, as loudly as he could, “Get on the ground. Get on the ground now!”

Morrison disarmed him so quickly that it was almost embarrassing. Sam rubbed his wrist, which was stinging with the force of the blow.

“Nice one.” He said dryly.

Morrison grinned at him. “Thanks, sir.”

They repeated the drill for almost an hour, before Lennox called the exercise to an end. Sam groaned in relief, dropping the training gun back in the box that was passed around. When all of the props were accounted for, Lennox called the platoon to attention. The recruits formed up as the Major assumed his place in front of them. 

“Morrison, Kelley, Mills, and Witwicky, you’re with me.” He said without preamble, “Everyone else is with Chief Master Sergeant Williams. We are going to walk the outdoor firing range one final time, and then we will begin preparations for the exercise this afternoon.”

Sam wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, before ambling over to stand next to Morrison. Jason Kelley joined them a moment later, along with a man that Sam had never met before. He was tall and broad shouldered, and although he couldn't have been older than forty, he had a head of gray hair.

“Sam, this is Brian, Brian this is Sam.” Kelley said, gesturing between them, “Mills is a reservist, formerly Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

The older man reached out a beefy hand, and Sam accepted it with his own.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Mills rumbled.

“You too.” Sam replied, “And, please, call me Sam.”

A skeptical look flitted across Mills’ face, but he inclined his head in agreement.

“Alright, gentlemen.” Lennox said as he approached. “This morning is going to be a little different. Ambassador Witwicky will be working with our Spec Ops team, and you’ve been selected to assist.”

Sam’s head came up as he stared at Lennox in confusion. “Wait, what?”

At the same time, Jazz’s mental presence _nudged_ him insistently. He half-turned, following the mental trail, to find Jazz standing on the bream in his bipedal mode. Smokescreen and Skids stood at his side, gleaming brightly in the late morning sun. Jazz raised two digits in a haphazard salute, a sharp grin spreading across his faceplates.

Sam screwed his eyes shut and groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** You can watch the drill that Sam and Morrison were doing [[Here]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiJodvco5GU), and Steelfeather's version of Wheeljack (as described in this series) can be viewed [[Here]](https://www.deviantart.com/greenapplefreak/art/Instability-Wheeljack-134010891).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Notes:** I loved writing every single word of this chapter. Thank-you so much for all of the encouragement and support in the comments. It means a lot!
> 
>  **Chapter Warning:** Flashback to trauma, canon-typical injuries.

He felt the swell of Jazz’s amusement, before the second-in-command _nudged_ him once again. Sam opened his eyes, staring up at the silver mechanoid. He was standing with both servos on his hips, a wry expression on his faceplates.

“Alright, Hoss, you’re with me.” Jazz said.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing.

“Are you serious?” He asked. “ _Now_?”

Jazz stepped back, transforming into his alt mode by way of answer. As soon as the last panel slid into place, the Pontiac Solstice popped open its driver’s side door. Sam sighed heavily, but he made his way up the embankment towards the car. Jazz swung his door back and forth invitingly as he approached.

Smokescreen and Skids were standing a short distance away, watching as he crested the hill. The tactician stepped forward, inclining his helm in greeting. 

“Good morning, Sam.” Smokescreen rumbled.

Sam squinted up at the tactician in surprise—his voice was warm and welcoming. “Morning, Smokescreen.”

The red and blue mechanoid went down to one knee in front of him. Distantly, Sam was aware of Lennox and the other recruits coming up behind them. “Skids and I will be assisting with your training.”

“Youse about to go to _school_ , son.” Skids agreed in his thick urban accent, “The teacher is in.”

Smokescreen directed a cool look at the messenger, before warbling something in Cybertronian. Skids scoffed, flipping Smokescreen off with both servos, before transforming into his alt mode. The tactician narrowed his optics at the smaller mechanoid, but before he could say anything, Skids accelerated towards the road and slammed on his breaks. A moment later, his driver’s side door popped open.

“I don’t care which of youse is comin’ with me, but hurry your afts up.” He called, voice pitched to carry.

Lennox came to stand beside Sam, folding his arms over his chest. “Mills, you’re with Skids. Morrison and Kelley will go with Smokescreen.”

Mills nodded and started over towards the Chevrolet without a word. Skids idled in silence until he was a short distance from the driver’s side door, and then he accelerated forward several paces. When Mills made to climb into the cab a second time, he rolled forward again.

“Knock it off, Skids!” Lennox snapped. 

The messenger honked his horn in protest, but he let Mills climb into his driver’s seat without further incident. The door slammed shut behind him, with a great deal more force than necessary, and then Skids drove away in a cloud of dust. Lennox watched them go with narrowed eyes.

As soon as the Chevy disappeared around a bend in the road, Lennox glanced up at Smokescreen. “Go ahead, we’ll follow behind you.”

The tactician inclined his helm, before transforming in a flurry of shifting metal. His alt mode was a sleek Nissan Datsun, and as soon as he was finished his transformation sequence, he opened both of his doors. Morrison and Kelley strode forward, visible curiosity on their faces, and climbed into the waiting cabin. Smokescreen shut the doors behind them with a barely audible _thump_ , before engaging his engine and accelerating towards the road.

Lennox tipped his head towards Jazz’s waiting alt mode. “Alright, Sam, let’s go.”

“I don’t understand.” Sam replied, stepping up to the driver’s side door, “What are we doing?”

Rather than answer him, Lennox climbed into the cab. Sam frowned faintly, but he slid into the driver’s seat all the same. He had never been inside Jazz’s alt mode before. The Pontiac Solstice was upholstered in dark leather, with creamy tan highlights covering the center console and the dashboard. As soon as he was settled, the seatbelt snaked over his chest and fastened of its own accord.

“We are picking up where we left off in Jasper.” Jazz answered on Lennox’s behalf. 

Sam frowned faintly. “I thought we weren’t combining infiltration and physical training until August.”

“Lennox and I agree that you’re ready.” Jazz replied, his voice turning wry, “We’ll start slow—no live ammunition this time.”

Lennox chuckled quietly, before glancing around the cab. “Nice alt, Jazz. Not much cargo room, though.” 

“I’m the total package, Lennox. No cargo room required.” Jazz quipped back.

Sam felt a stab of irritation at their cavalier manner. “How can the recruits possibly help with infiltration? Did you tell them about me?”

The seatbelt tightened across his chest in a mild rebuke.

“Believe it or not, Sam, I’m not in the habit of disclosing sensitive intel.” Jazz drawled, slowing down as he took a turn. The field firing range came into view in the distance—a wide expanse of hills, ditches, trees, dugouts, and obstacle equipment. Smokescreen and Skids were parked near the entrance, while Mills, Morrison, and Kelley were waiting by the road.

“Alright, maybe not.” Sam allowed, pinning the dashboard with a look, “So what are they doing here?” 

“We’re playing hide-n-seek, kiddo, and you’re it.” Jazz replied with a great deal more cheer than Sam thought was necessary, “That’s all they need to know.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut and thumped his head against the seat. “I hate hide-n-seek.”

Jazz chuckled in response as he pulled to a stop beside Smokescreen. Sam reached for the buckle, making to climb out of the cab, but the seatbelt wouldn’t release. 

“You will remain firewalled and filtered. Smokescreen and Skids will attempt to find you. At the same time, the recruits will be tracking you down. If you are found by either party, it will count against you. Do you have any questions?” Jazz asked.

The tone of his voice made Sam sit-up a little straighter in his seat. It was brisk and no-nonsense, and he knew without any doubt that it was Jazz the second-in-command speaking, not Jazz his friend. 

“What do you mean _count against me_?” Sam asked, suspiciously.

Jazz’s amusement flashed between them and the seatbelt released with a _click_.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” He replied pleasantly.

Sam rolled his eyes, before unshouldering the seatbelt and opening the door. It was a pleasantly warm morning, with fair weather cumulus clouds dotting the otherwise pristine blue sky. It had rained the night before, however, and the ground was still sodden and muddy. As soon as he and Lennox stepped away, Jazz transformed back into his bipedal mode. Smokescreen and Skids followed suit a moment later. 

“Alright, gentlemen, the name of the game is simple.” Jazz began, waving his servo towards the field firing range, “His Excellency the Right Honorable here has been given his marching orders. Your job is to track him down.”

Every capital letter in the honorific was audible, and Sam pinned the saboteur with a withering look. Morrison looked between Sam and the firing range, before canting his head to the side.

“We’re spending the morning playing tag?” He asked skeptically.

“Hide and seek, actually.” Jazz replied, his smile losing none of its angles.

Morrison considered his response for a moment and then he shrugged. “Sounds good, sir. It beats hauling equipment from Point A to Point B.”

Lennox watched the exchange in silence, before adding, mildly, “As an added incentive, you will be given an extra half-hour of downtime for every time you find him. It is in your interests to do so as quickly as possible.”

Morrison, Kelley, and Mills turned to look at Sam in perfect unison, and then Morrison’s face slowly broke out in a smile.

“With all due respect, sir, you’re fucked.” He said, good-naturedly. 

Sam resisted the urge to say something sarcastic, and instead looked up at Jazz. “Do I get a head start, at least?”

“Of course.” Jazz agreed easily, “Three minutes, starting now.”

“What, like, right now?” Sam asked, taken by surprise.

“Two minutes and fifty-six seconds.” Jazz said by way of reply.

Sam groaned internally, before sprinting towards the firing range. The ground was wet, causing it to squelch beneath his boots. He avoided the worst of the puddles as he went, crossing over the outer boundary and jogging down the first incline. He almost slipped on the wet grass, but he managed to keep his balance. It wasn’t long before the parking lot, and the recruits, were no longer visible behind him.

At the same time, Sam turned his attention inwards and pushed his firewalls into place. He was distantly aware of Smokescreen and Skids disappearing into the darkness of the neural-network as they did the same. Jazz’s indigo-colored glow remained visible, silent and observant.

Sam made his way across the open expanse between two dugouts, before he realized that he was leaving a trail behind him. He cursed himself internally, stepping onto the grass and wiping off his boots. His forward progress was slower after that, as he was forced to stick to the gravel paths and patches of grass.

His only warning that the three minutes were up came from a perceptible _shift_ on the neural-network. Sam went on the alert, trying to slide across the dark expanse as inconspicuously as possible. He struggled to make out the telltale shimmer of a filtering firewall, but he couldn’t sense anything. At the same time, he stepped around a low wall and noticed the culvert. It was a meter wide, extending between one climbing platform and another. He considered it briefly, noting its low angle and relative obscurity, before he made his way forward and crouched down. It was dry, except for an inch or two of water pooling at the bottom, so Sam went down to his hands and knees and crawled inside.

He had barely made it two feet before a stinging mental _cuff_ caught him across the mind. Sam had to bite his lip to keep himself from swearing out loud. He narrowed his eyes, wrapping his filtering firewall closer around his mind, before sliding across the neural-network as quickly as he could. He had no idea whether it had been Smokescreen or Skids who had found him, but they certainly weren’t playing around. 

He was so focused on crossing the neural-network, keeping an eye out for pursuers, and maintaining his firewalls that he didn’t even notice anything was amiss until it was too late.

“Found you.” Kelley said, his voice echoing down the culvert.

Sam’s head came up in surprise, and he turned to see Kelley crouching on the other side of the tunnel. His body was cast in shadow, but his face caught the light well enough for Sam to see his smile.

“Well, damn.” Sam replied, annoyed with himself, “I didn’t even hear you.”

Kelley chuckled at him good-naturedly, before straightening up and tugging a whistle out from his pocket. He brought it to his mouth, blowing it in two short bursts. He turned back to look at Sam, and at the confused expression on his face, Kelley explained, “It’s to let the others know that you’ve been found. You have three minutes from the whistle before we begin our pursuit again.”

“Thanks.” Sam said, climbing out of the culvert and standing up. “I don’t suppose you’d be a champ and turn around until I’ve gone?”

“Nope.” Kelley replied with a smile, “Better hurry.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he started off without complaint. This part of the range was mostly made up of equipment meant for climbing, traversing, and crawling. It gave him a number of options for hiding places, but it was also an obvious first choice to search. He continued jogging, staying low to the ground and keeping an eye out for Mills and Morrison, when Skids hit him hard enough to make him stumble. He shook his head, turning his attention inwards just in time to see the jade-colored glow disappear into the ether.

“That fucking _hurt_ , Skids.” He snapped.

 _//Get those firewalls back up.//_ Jazz admonished sharply.

Sam felt a flash of anger at the second-in-command’s tone, but he gathered up his firewalls and pushed them into place. He took a second to adjust the filtering firewall so that it hugged his mental presence, and then he continued across the range. The obstacle course transitioned into a series of hills and ditches with log rails. Sam ducked down, jogging along the length of one mound, before sliding into the space between two pillars.

He was so focused on checking the grounds for his pursuers that he almost missed the telltale _shimmer_ at the edge of his mind. He pulled the firewalls tightly around his mental presence and shifted, dodging Smokescreen’s attack. The sapphire glow pulsed approvingly at him, to Sam’s surprise, before it disappeared once again.

He crouched down, leaning against one of the pillars as he wiped his face with his shirt. He was sweating in earnest now, and they had only been at it for fifteen minutes or so. It was proving to be a difficult challenge to focus on the neural-network and his surroundings at the same time—one or the other always took precedence.

A _snap_ a short distance away made Sam go very still. He tilted his head, straining to listen, but the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees at the edge of the grounds. He was just about to stand up and make a run for it when Mills came into sight at the other side of the mound. The former RCMP officer was stalking low to the ground, but he wasn’t looking in his direction. Sam ducked down and shifted behind the pillar, keeping it between Mills and himself. When the gray haired man disappeared around the mound of earth, Sam crept away and, when he was reasonably sure that Mills wouldn’t hear him, he broke into a run. 

“Hey, it’s not tag!” Morrison bellowed, startling him.

The older man was standing on the other side of the barbed wire crawl that took up the main portion of the clearing. Sam turned to look at him, flashing a lopsided grin, and lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“Oh, that’s the way it’s going to be, is it?” Morrison called after him before taking chase, “Well, it’s your funeral.”

Sam might not have been the strongest recruit or the best shot with a rifle, but he was fast. It had saved his life in Mission City and then again in Egypt. He pushed himself, making his way towards the series of ditches on the far side of the field. They were traversed by log bridges at uneven intervals, and if he could get across, there were dugouts on the opposite side that he could use.

He was almost to the first bridge when Mills appeared out of nowhere, grabbing him in a full-bodied tackle. They went down together, and Sam grunted as they hit the ground. Mills protected him from the brunt of the fall, however, and he was none of the worse for wear because of it.

“Sorry, sir.” Mills apologized with a hesitant smile, “We were told ‘any means necessary’.”

Sam rolled over onto his back, groaning as he did so. The ground was soaked and now so was he.

“It’s fine.” He grumbled, pushing himself into a sitting position, “Nice tackle. You should have played for the NFL.”

Mills sat back on his heels, his smile sharpening into a grin. “I’m Canadian, sir. We have the CFL.”

Morrison came running up to them, then, breathing hard through his nose. “This one counts as mine.”

“It certainly does not.” Mills returned coolly, climbing to his feet and extending his hand towards Sam.

“I saw him first.” Morrison argued back, sticking out his hand as well.

Sam shook his head ruefully, but he grabbed their hands and let them haul him to his feet.

“Losers weepers, pal.” Mills replied.

Morrison rolled his eyes, but he had a wry smile on his face. “That’s not very Canadian of you.”

Mills lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug as he pulled a whistle out of his pocket. He gave two sharp blasts, and then he glanced at Sam.

“You have three minutes.” He informed him.

Sam waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

He started off towards the bridge that spanned the ditch. It was perhaps a half-meter wide, made of logs tied closely together, but it was long—easily twenty meters from one end to the other. The ditch was deep as well, with steep sides and muddy water pooling at the bottom. He made to step onto the first log, when Skids cannonballed into his mind with enough force to make him see stars. Sam stumbled, doubling over with pain, as he clutched the sides of his head.

 _//Are you alright?//_ Jazz asked, sharply.

At the same time, Skids _cuffed_ him hard enough to make his vision blur. The world tilted precariously, and then Sam started to fall. He was grabbed from behind, but it was too late—his forward momentum pulled both him and Morrison over the side of the bridge. He hit the ground for a second time, tumbling head over heels down the embankment. He had a brief second to brace himself, and then he plunged face-first into the muddy water.

Pure, unadulterated panic consumed him as the water closed over his head. He struggled blindly, caught in a tangle of limbs, and he broke the surface a moment later. He gasped for air, his chest constricting painfully as he flailed towards the bank.

Morrison surfaced a short distance away, already swearing up a storm.

“Sonofamother _fucker_!” He yelled, wiping his face, “This water is cold!”

Sam couldn’t hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his ears. He threw himself onto the bank, scrabbling at the loose earth, as he tried to pull himself out of the water.

“Whoever dug this ditch can suck my balls.” Morrison grumbled, climbing to his feet, “Sadistic piece of— hey, are you alright?”

Sam’s breath was wheezing out of him, coming in short sharp pants. He clawed at the embankment, trying to get a handhold, when Morrison grabbed him around the waist.

“Hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you.” He said, before hollering up the hill, “Mills, get down here. I need your help.”

Sam went rigid at the contact, throwing an elbow back into Morrison’s face.

“Get off me!” He gasped, “Let go!” 

The older man grunted at the impact, but he held on tight. 

“You’re alright, Sam. Come on, grab here. Look—there’s a rope.”

There was, Sam realized. A long, knotted rope extended from the support beam at the top of the bridge to the water. It was the same color as the muddy embankment, making it difficult to see. He grabbed it with both hands, terror lending him strength, and he began pulling himself up the hill. Morrison came behind him, his shoulder wedged under Sam’s bent knees, helping him up. When he neared the top of the hill, Mills grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hauling him the rest of the way.

Sam clambered over the rise, falling to his hands and knees, as he gasped for air. Mills was kneeling by his side a moment later, hands held up, palm first.

“You’re alright.” He soothed in his deep voice, “Take a deep breath.”

Sam shuddered from head to toe, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat. He took a deep breath, and then another, as the panic began to recede.

“Do you know where you are?” Mills asked softly, “Sam?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, mortification and shame coming in quick succession.

“It’s 10:22 AM. Your name is Sam Witwicky and you’re on Diego Garcia.” Mills said, earning himself a sharp look.

“I know.” Sam rasped in reply.

Mills nodded encouragingly. “Alright, that’s good. Do you think you could sit back for me? I need to check that out.”

At Sam’s confused expression, Mills gestured to his face. It was only then that Sam became aware of the throbbing pain on his nose and brow. He lifted a hand, brushing his fingers over his forehead and wincing when they came away red.

“I think I hit every rock on the way down.” He said faintly.

Morrison crouched down beside him, a wry smile tugging at his mouth and blood all over his face. “You and me both.”

Sam’s eyebrows drew up in alarm at the sight of him. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

Morrison wiped his face with his sleeve, but the rivulet of blood streaming from his hairline immediately reappeared, “I’ll be fine. You’re going to have a wicked shiner in the morning, though.”

Mills pulled out his whistle and gave three short blasts in quick succession. As soon as he was finished, he pulled his first aid kit out of the pouch on his utility belt. It was unzipped with quick, efficient movements, and then he retrieved a package of gauze. He tore it open, before glancing up to meet Sam’s face.

“Can I touch you?” He asked.

Sam nodded faintly, too mortified to speak. Something on his expression must have been revealing, however, for Mills shook his head.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He said, pressing the gauze over Sam’s left eye, “We’ve all been there.”

Morrison reached over, grabbing another package of gauze from the first aid kit. “He’s right, you know. Been there, done that, bought the postcard.”

There was something about their tone of voice, easy and accepting, that softened his mortification. Morrison tore open the package with his teeth, before pressing it against his hairline. Mills murmured for him to apply pressure, and Sam pressed his hand against the gauze without comment. It was only when Mills began opening another package of gauze that Sam became aware of the seething anger at the edge of his mind.

He winced deeply. “We should probably head back. Ratchet’s on his way.”

Mills glanced up at him, confusion furrowing his brow. “What?”

Before Sam could reply, Jazz came around the corner. The second-in-command was in his bipedal mode, picking his way across the firing range with Smokescreen and Lennox at his side. Skids was nowhere in sight—luckily for him, Sam thought caustically.

“Are you alright?” Jazz asked as he approached, his voice soft with concern.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Sam grumbled in reply.

The panic was a distant memory—all that was left was a vague sense of embarrassment at losing his composure in front of two perfect strangers.

Jazz crouched down beside them, his optics roving over Sam’s face.

“You don’t look alright.” He observed mildly.

Sam pulled the gauze away, pressing his fingers against his brow. The bleeding had stopped, but he could tell that Morrison was right—he was going to have a black eye in the morning. The skin was already beginning to swell.

“No, I’m fine.” He replied, pressing the gauze back and tipping his head towards Morrison, “Derek’s worse. I think he needs stitches.”

Jazz glanced over at the former Royal Marine, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Thank-you for your help.” He said, inclining his helm. “We are grateful.” 

Morrison favored him with a tilted half-smile. “No problem, sir. Does that count as another find? That’s two for me.”

“One for you.” Mills corrected him. 

Lennox stopped next to Jazz, looking Sam up and down.

“I can’t take you anywhere.” He said wryly. 

Sam’s mouth twitched up in a smile. “Sorry.”

Lennox looked as though he was about to reply, but whatever he was going to say was drowned out in the sound of engines approaching. They turned to look as Ratchet and Bumblebee drove onto the pitch, navigating around the barbed wire crawl to come to a stop a short distance away. The Chief Medical Officer transformed immediately, and when he did, he rounded on Jazz in a fury.

“I gave you _explicit instructions_.” He snapped, his plating flared with anger, “Perhaps you mistook them for suggestions, you useless pile of rusted parts.”

He punctuated his words with a sharp jab against Jazz's chestplate, rocking him back a step. The second-in-command inclined his helm, accepting the reprimand, but Lennox interrupted before he could speak.

“This wasn’t a live action exercise, Ratchet.” Lennox said, frowning, “He’ll be fine.”

Ratchet turned to look at him with narrowed optics. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, Major.”

Lennox narrowed his eyes in return. “Well, I’m giving it. Accidents happen—that’s life.”

Ratchet’s expression turned cold and he asked, remarkably calmly, “I beg your pardon?”

The Major held his ground, staring down twenty feet of robotic fury without blinking an eye. “It was my judgment call. I made it. End of discussion.”

Ratchet bristled, causing Smokescreen to step forward and lay a restraining servo on his pauldron. The medic shook him off, pinning Lennox with a withering glare. “You are well aware of my opinions concerning your _judgment calls_ , Major.”

Lennox stiffened from head to toe, before his face twisted with anger. Sam clambered to his feet, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat.

“Hey, Ratch, it’s okay.” He stammered, “Look, I won’t even need stiches. No harm, no foul.”

Ratchet turned to pin him with a glower, proving that he had plenty of pissed off to go around. “I cannot decide whether you are remarkably lucky or unlucky. The next ditch has cement pylons at the bottom, the one after that has a barbed wire crawl. This accident could have had a very different outcome.” He turned to narrow his optics at Jazz, “Which is why I forbade exercises on the range without protective gear.”

“It was just a game of—“ Sam tried, but Ratchet fixed him with a look that made him swallow his words.

“You’re finished.” Ratchet said tightly, turning to look at the waiting Camaro, “Take him back.”

Lennox uncrossed his arms, flushing all the way down his neck. “No, he’s not. He has a firing exercise this afternoon.”

Ratchet turned to look at him, his expression a mixture of incredulity and anger. “Do you believe I would allow this to continue when you are incapable of following the simplest instructions regarding his wellbeing?”

Lennox set his jaw, his eyes hardening to pieces of flint. “He’s getting this training, whether you like it or not.”

Ratchet’s expression darkened forebodingly. “You are mistaken, Major. My orders supersede your own.”

Jazz whistled, long and low, as he reached out to squeeze Ratchet’s pauldron.

“Let’s discuss this later… when we don’t have an audience.” He urged quietly.

Ratchet glanced down at the offending appendage with visible scorn on his face. “Remove your servo, or I will cut it off and weld it to your aft.”

Their argument was interrupted by the sound of engines approaching at high speeds. Sam turned as a Peterbilt and a Topkick crested the hill and accelerated in their direction. He didn’t miss the way that Ratchet stiffened at the sight of the two trucks.

Optimus transformed almost before he came to a full stop. The Autobot leader was visibly upset, his optics narrowed and mouthplates thinned in tightly controlled anger. He turned to look at Sam, gently brushing across his mind. The touch was concerned and affectionate, and Sam winced faintly in response.

“This conversation must wait.” Prime rumbled as he approached, “Corporal Morrison and Ambassador Witwicky have injuries that need tending.”

“No, this conversation is over.” Ratchet bit back coldly.

Prime narrowed his optics in displeasure. “We will reconvene in my office after you have taken Corporal Morrison back to base.”

Ratchet stiffened, looking as though he was going to argue, when Optimus silenced him with a look. The medic returned his gaze for a weighted moment, and then he ex-vented a sharp snort. He turned, glancing over at Morrison, before jerking his helm in a ‘ _come here’_ motion.

“Get up. I’ll see to your stiches.” He said, gruffly but not unkindly.

Morrison clambered to his feet, still holding the gauze against his face, and made his way over. Ratchet watched him for a moment longer, and then he stepped back, transforming into his alt mode. As soon as his tires touched the ground, the back doors swung open. Sam made to follow after him, but he felt a restraining touch from across their bond space.

 _//Go with Bumblebee.//_ Ratchet instructed briskly, // _He will take you back to your apartment so you can ice your injuries.//_

Sam hesitated, uncertain, and then he pressed against the wizened glow in his mind.

 _//I’m alright, Ratch.//_ He said, tentatively.

Ratchet was silent as Morrison climbed into his cabin and settled onto the gurney. The Corporal glanced around curiously, only to jump about a foot in the air when Ratchet’s holoform materialized beside him. The grizzled medic seemed unfazed, for he set about treating his injuries without comment. The door snapped shut a second later, and then the Hummer accelerated across the range in the direction of the base.

 _//This time, perhaps.//_ Ratchet rumbled at last, and there was disquiet in his voice.

Prime watched the medic go, before turning to look at Lennox. He went down to one knee in front of him, inclining his helm. “I apologize for Ratchet’s behavior. You are well within your rights to request a formal reprimand.”

The Major crossed his arms over his chest, his face hardening with some indefinable emotion.

“I don’t want an apology or a reprimand.” He said, angling his head to look Prime in the face, “I want to do my job as I see fit.”

Optimus rumbled, deep within his chassis. “As do I, Major.”

Lennox nodded once, tersely. “Good, then we understand one another.”

The Autobot leader inclined his helm again, before straightening to his full height. He and Jazz exchanged a significant look, and then he stepped back and transformed. Jazz and Smokescreen followed suit, folding into their alt modes one at a time, and then Ironhide rolled forward until his bumper was inches away from Will’s chest. The Major stared at the Topkick for a long moment, and then the driver’s side door popped open.

Lennox glanced over at them. “Do you need a ride back to base?”

It took Sam a moment to realize the question had been directed at Mills.

“He can come with us.” Sam blurted before the older man could reply.

Lennox rolled his shoulders in a shrug, and then he climbed into the waiting cab. Almost as soon as the door shut behind him, Optimus, Ironhide, Jazz, and Smokescreen started off towards the base in a tight procession, leaving only Bumblebee behind.

Sam ambled over to his bonded, trailing his fingers across his glossy finish.

 _//Are you alright?//_ Bumblebee asked, simply.

 _//Yeah, I think so.//_ Sam murmured in reply, _//More embarrassed than anything.//_

Bumblebee popped open both doors, and Sam glanced over at Mills.

“Where to?” He asked, climbing into the cab.

Mills gathered up his first aid kit and the gauze wrappers, before sliding into the passenger seat.

“I don’t know.” He admitted with a laugh, “I wasn’t given any instruction.”

Sam thought about it for a minute, and then he shrugged. “Do you want to grab an early lunch?”

Mills chuckled as he fastened the seatbelt. “Yeah, sure. I could eat.”

Sam smiled faintly, pulling the door shut behind him. Bumblebee’s engine was already idling, and as soon as his passengers were settled, he accelerated across the range. Sam reached up, angling the rearview mirror to get a look at himself. His left eye was half-swollen and he had a decent-sized cut on his brow and another across the bridge of his nose. He grimaced deeply.

“I’m going to shower and change first.” He said, looking over at Mills, “Do you want to meet in the mess?”

The older man glanced at the clock on the dashboard, before nodding. “Sure. Say, eleven?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Sam agreed.

They stopped briefly near the obstacle course to pick up Kelley, who had been looking for them. Mills got out of the cab and Bumblebee adjusted the seat so the younger man could climb in the back. As soon as Kelley caught sight of him, his eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline.

“What happened to you?” He asked in surprise.

Sam huffed a laugh. “It’s a long story. We’re grabbing an early lunch. You interested?” 

Kelley settled down as he glanced appreciatively around the cab. “Yeah, sure. Where’s Morrison?”

“He’s getting stitches.” Mills supplied as he climbed back into the passenger seat.

The look of surprise on Kelley’s face deepened. “It sounds like you guys had an interesting morning.”

Sam and Mills exchanged a wry look.

“It was alright.” Sam replied with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Props to whoever caught the Hannibal reference!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Wow, I am completely blown away by the reaction to the last chapter. Thank-you all so, so much for your enthusiasm and support. It means the world to me!

Sam stepped into his apartment, snapping on the lights and dropping his boots next to the door. He had taken them off at the bridge entrance and walked through North Quad on his bare feet. The leather was going to shrink, he was sure about that, but he thought they would be salvageable.

He shut the door behind him, and then he began peeling out of his soaked things. The clothes clung unpleasantly to his body, cooled by the recycled air in the Hive. His shirt came off first, followed by his pants and boxers. He left them in a wet pile on the floor, before shuffling into the bedroom. He was stiff and sore as a result of his fall, and he was looking forward to a hot shower and a warm meal.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the bathroom door was ajar. The steady thrum of the shower could already be heard, even over the mechanical _whir_ of the air conditioning system. He smiled faintly, padding forward to push open the door the rest of the way. 

“Got a head start, did you?” Sam asked dryly.

Bumblebee turned, smiling at him. “Was there ever any doubt?”

The holoform had gathered a change of clothes and a cold pack, which had been placed on the countertop next to a pile of fresh bath linens. Sam stepped more fully into the bathroom as Bumblebee pulled the shower curtain aside. He must have been running the water for a while, for steam was already billowing into the air. 

“Thanks.” Sam murmured, picking up a washcloth, “You’re a life saver.”

Bumblebee’s eyes narrowed fractionally as Sam approached the bathtub. The holoform reached out, taking his chin in a gentle grip, and tilted his head to the side.

“The swelling will be worse tomorrow.” He predicted.

Sam grimaced faintly, pressing his fingers against his brow bone. The flesh was tender and swollen. “Yeah, I know.”

Bumblebee held him a moment longer, before letting him go. “You should get washed quickly so you can ice it.”

Sam glanced down at the bottom of the bathtub. The water was pooling around the drain, even though it was unplugged. It was clear, at least. No trace of mud or rust. It was a strange sort of comfort. He could still smell the dirty water from the trench—could taste it, even. It stirred up memories that he had spent months trying to ignore.

Bumblebee’s mental presence _brightened_ with concern, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He stood there for a moment longer, steam filling the air, before Bumblebee clasped him on the shoulder.

“Are you alright?” He asked, softly.

Sam swallowed around the lump that had crawled up his throat. “I will be. Eventually. So they say.”

“I could join you.” Bumblebee said, tipping his head towards the shower, “Would it help?”

Sam huffed a half-hearted laugh in reply. “You’re welcome to join me, but I don’t think it’ll help.”

Bumblebee’s eyes flitted over his face, and then he gently pried the washcloth out of Sam’s clenched fist. “Come on, in and out, and then you can go to lunch.”

The holoform stepped over the rim of the tub and extended a hand towards him. Sam stared at it for a long moment, his thoughts whirling almost too quickly to marshal. It was just a shower—he had had dozens of showers since that night. The sound of water hitting porcelain was nothing like the groan of pipes as dirty water had filled the trough, again and again.

“Sam?” Bumblebee asked, softly, “What is it?”

Sam stared at the water for a moment longer, trying to shape his thoughts into words. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was devoid of inflection. “He didn’t just drown me. He waterboarded me first.”

Bumblebee went very still. “He what?”

Sam’s throat caught at the holoform’s deceptively mild tone. He swallowed again, working moisture into his mouth. “He wanted to know about my healing factor, and he didn’t believe what I told him. He beat me and then he waterboarded me.”

His voice trailed off as he stared at the water swirling the drain. “I don’t know how many times he did it. I lost track, after a while, but I remembered what you told me, in the end.” He forced himself to lift his head and look Bumblebee in the eye. The holoform’s shoulders were rigid with tension, betraying his emotions. “About bending or breaking.”

Bumblebee’s face twisted with grief. “You did the right thing, Sam.”

Sam shuddered from head to toe, the spell abruptly broken. He took a fortifying breath and stepped into the shower, standing so that the stream of water caught him between his shoulder blades.

“I didn’t expect to lose it today.” Sam said, quietly, after a while. “I think that’s the worst part… not knowing when it’s going to happen.”

The holoform stepped close, running his hands over Sam’s chest.

“Should you schedule an appointment with Karen?” He suggested.

Sam huffed another laugh, wry and self-deprecating. “Probably. I doubt the range master will want an unhinged headcase wandering around with semi-automatic weaponry.”

He felt Bumblebee’s disapproval at the same time the holoform gripped him by the shoulders.

“Don’t say that.” Bee admonished, “You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal trauma. You’re not a headcase.”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a wan smile. “Agree to disagree.”

Bumblebee gave him a little shake. “Well, I don’t agree to that.”

The words surprised a laugh from him—small and weak, perhaps, but genuine. The holoform smiled at him in response, and then he went about lathering up the washcloth. Sam made to take it from him when he finished, but Bumblebee held it out of reach.

“Can I do this for you?” He asked instead.

Sam’s face softened with affection at his tone of voice—hesitant, entreating, earnest.

“Yeah, alright.” He murmured in reply.

Bumblebee’s mental presence _brushed_ against him, warm and appreciative, as he brought the washcloth to Sam’s chest. He drew it across his torso and down his flanks, sluicing away the mud and grit and sweat. His touch was gentle, and it wasn’t long before Sam began to relax. Bumblebee murmured at him approvingly, fingers sweeping across the hallow of his throat. Sam let his eyes drift closed, quietened by the feeling of warm water and Bumblebee’s hands on his body. The holoform dragged the washcloth over one arm and then the other, before he went down to his knees in front of him.

Sam’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Now that’s a sight for sore eyes.”

Bumblebee glanced up at him, wry exasperation written all over his face. “Get your mind out of the gutter. You just had a panic attack.”

Sam’s smile curled even wider. “I don’t know, Bee. The gutter’s pretty fun; I recommend it.”

The holoform shook his head as he bent back to task. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m trapped in the body of an eighteen-year-old.” Sam replied, grinning now, “Get used to it.”

Bumblebee chuckled as he drew the washcloth down one leg, taking a moment to work the calf muscle with his fingertips. “Lift up.”

Sam braced one hand against the shower wall and obliged him, lifting one foot and then the other as Bumblebee washed him. When the holoform was finished, he straightened to his full height and grasped Sam’s hip, turning him around. Sam went without protest, closing his eyes and letting his head pitch forward. Bumblebee worked the soapy cloth over his back with one hand, while he trailed the fingertips of the other across Sam’s bare skin. When he was done, the holoform wrung out the washcloth and picked up the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner from the shower caddy.

“Close your eyes.” Bumblebee warned, popping the cap.

Sam obeyed him without thinking, and a moment later, the holoform began working his fingers through Sam’s hair. He groaned in pleasure, earning himself a chuckle in response.

“You are very tactile.” Bumblebee said fondly, dragging his fingertips over Sam’s scalp.

“Feels nice.” Sam murmured.

“Yes, I can tell.” Bumblebee replied, before tugging at Sam’s curls, “Tilt your head back for me, please.”

Sam did as he was instructed, and Bumblebee proceeded to rinse out his hair. He was careful in his ministrations, checking for any remaining residue, before he gave Sam’s hip a squeeze. “All finished. Are you ready to get out?”

Sam grunted in protest, but Bumblebee just slapped him lightly on the ass. “Go on. You need to ice that black eye before you eat.”

Although the swat made his dick twitch with interest, Sam shut off the water and climbed out of the bathtub. Bumblebee was faster, and the holoform handed him a towel before he had the chance to reach for it himself.

“Thanks.” Sam said, shaking it open. 

“You’re welcome.” Bumblebee replied, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter. He regarded Sam for a moment longer, and then he said, “So, you’re going to lunch with Mills and Kelley.” 

Sam glanced at him as he wrapped the towel around his waist. “Yeah, so?”

Bumblebee hesitated, as though he were choosing his words carefully. “You should know that the NEST personnel have been fully vetted, including the recruits.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe and asked, flatly, “Vetted?”

The holoform winced at him. “In the aftermath of the security breach, we improved our SOPs and background checks. Prowl conducted them himself.”

Sam could feel the heat stealing up his neck and across his face. “Oh, so I can enjoy lunch without worrying about whether they’re double-agents looking to fuck me over. Is that it?”

Bumblebee’s expression softened, and he pushed away from the counter to stand in front of him. “Sam, please. I just thought you should know.”

Sam made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat, before stepping around the holoform to grab his clothes. He carried them into the bedroom and tossed them onto the foot of the bed. Bumblebee followed behind him, a silent shadow at Sam’s back, as he started getting dressed.

“I’m _fine_.” Sam insisted, yanking his shirt down over his head, “I socialize plenty.”

Bumblebee didn’t respond to that—he didn’t need to. This was a familiar argument, one they had had many times since that fateful night in June. Sam knew that his bonded was worried about how little he socialized with anyone other than Carter and Lennox. Sam had even pushed Epps and Williams away, except for the times when training made interacting with them unavoidable.

“You haven’t spoken to another person, voluntarily, in over two months.” Bumblebee quietly replied.

Sam grabbed his pants, pulling them on one leg at a time. “I had lunch with Carter last Tuesday.”

“You ate lunch beside Carter at a senior officer’s debriefing.” Bumblebee corrected him, “And you hardly spoke two words to him.”

Sam fastened his pants, before turning around to sit on the edge of the bed. He pulled on his socks, and then he was back on his feet and striding into the living room.

“Forget it, Bumblebee.” He said, snagging his identification badge off the table and pulling the lanyard over his head, “I’ll work through it on my own time.”

The holoform followed behind him, the cold pack in his hands. “I’m not trying to make friends for you, Sam. It was inappropriate with Novo, and it would be inappropriate now. Still, I’m allowed to be concerned—this isn’t like you.”

Sam stilled in the process of toeing on his sneakers. The two of them had not mentioned former Lieutenant Luis Novo since it had happened, as though by some unspoken mutual agreement. After a moment, he knelt down, pulling the collar of his sneaker over his heel.

“Well, I’m going to lunch, aren’t I?” Sam challenged.

Bumblebee inclined his head minutely. “Yes, and I’m glad.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he pulled on his other sneaker. “It’s just lunch. I’m not asking them to marry me.”

The holoform’s lips twitched up in a smile. “Well, I’m glad for that too. I wouldn’t want to be jealous.”

Sam gave him a wry look as he stood up, accepting the cold pack from the holoform as he opened the apartment door. “Am I going to the firing range after lunch or what?”

Bumblebee’s expression came inscrutable. “That depends.”

“On what?” Sam asked, frowning.

“On Ratchet.” Bumblebee replied.

* * *

Lennox did not often have cause to enter Prime’s office, but he did so now. The space was of middling size by Cybertronian standards, cavernous by human ones, and yet it still felt cramped. Ironhide was leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chassis, watching him pace the length of Prime’s desk. Prowl and Jazz stood nearby, conversing with one another in low tones. Ultra Magnus was standing at attention beside the door, next to Kup. The Elite Guard was watching him as well, his optics bright against the army-green of his weathered faceplates. Will returned his stare without compunction, daring the aged mechanoid to say anything. He had been on the warpath ever since the altercation at the firing range, and neither time nor his restless pacing had softened his temper. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the pneumatic _hiss_ of the door sliding open. Optimus Prime entered the office, silent and dignified, before striding to stand behind his desk. The Autobot leader glanced at him as he passed, inclining his helm in greeting. Will jerked his head in return. Neither of them said anything.

A moment later, the door slid open again and Ratchet stepped into the room. Lennox stiffened at the sight of him, his heartrate ticking even higher. The Chief Medical Officer glanced at him briefly, optics raking him from head to toe, before he turned to look at Optimus.

“Prime.” He said, clipped and to the point.

“Thank-you for coming, my old friend. Will you sit?” Optimus asked, gesturing with one broad servo toward the two Autobot-sized chairs in front of his desk.

“It is unnecessary.” Ratchet replied, “I won’t be staying.”

Lennox set his jaw, steeling himself for a fight. The medic’s tone was cold, just this side of insubordinate, and he could well imagine how this meeting was about to go down.

“Then I will be brief.” Optimus replied, “Your behavior on the firing range was inappropriate. Major Lennox has opted not to request a formal reprimand, but I have noted your conduct as unbecoming an officer in your service record.”

Ratchet stiffly inclined his helm. “As you say, Prime.”

The Autobot leader paused, letting the rebuke linger, before he continued. “On the matter of Sam—“

“You know my feelings on the subject.” Ratchet interrupted, “And, as I am responsible for his safety and wellbeing, the matter is not for discussion.”

“You are not the only one responsible for him.” Optimus corrected, shaking his helm, “You are his Creator, yes, but we are all tasked with his safety and wellbeing.”

Ratchet’s plating flared as he pinned the Autobot leader with a cold look.

“Is that so?” He asked tightly, “I find that difficult to believe when no one seems capable of following the simplest instructions regarding his care.”

The derision in his tone stoked the flames of Lennox’s temper to new heights. He found himself stepping up to the edge of the desk as he ground out, low and tight, “It was _hide and seek_ , Ratchet. We weren’t playing Russian Roulette.”

The Chief Medical Officer didn’t deign to look at him. “I have said all I have to say on the matter.”

“Sam is an adult, not a child.” Lennox continued, narrowing his eyes at the chartreuse medic, “You do him no favors by treating him like one.”

Ratchet glanced down at him, tension in every line of his frame. “You have made your opinions on the matter perfectly clear, Major Lennox.”

Jazz spread his servos wide, as though in appeasement. “You knew there would be accidents when we started this, Hatchet. The kid is fine—barely a scratch on him.”

“Sam is not a kid.” Will snapped, forestalling whatever Ratchet might have said, “He’s almost twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. I was in _Kandahar_ at his age.”

“That is not an argument in your favor, Major.” Ratchet returned coolly.

“Major Lennox’s concerns are logical.” Prowl put in, imminently calm despite the mounting tension in the room, “The firing range provided an element of difficulty while minimizing risk. The accident was unfortunate, but it was not, in so far as I can determine, the fault of either Jazz or Major Lennox.”

Prime rumbled, low in his chassis, and the sound of it made the hairs on Will’s arms stand up.

“Skids has received due punishment for his role in the accident.” The Autobot leader said, “After two weeks in stasis, he will receive additional work detail. I only hope it will be enough to impress upon him the seriousness of his actions.”

Will’s eyebrows quirked up in surprise. Two weeks in stasis lock was a stiff punishment, especially since it would affect Mudflap as well as Skids.

Ratchet, evidentially, disagreed.

“Two weeks?” He scoffed, “I would remind you this is not the first time he’s displayed poor judgment towards Sam.”

The look that Prime gave Ratchet was impossible to decipher, but the medic ex-vented and inclined his helm.

“As you say, Prime.” He ground out. 

“Regarding the rest of Sam’s training—“ Prime held up a servo, silencing the protest that Ratchet was about to make, “—he will continue with the regime Major Lennox and Jazz developed in July.”

Ratchet jerked back, before narrowing his optics at the Autobot leader. “Are you superseding my authority?”

The Autobot leader returned his heated gaze without flinching. “In this matter? Yes.”

Ratchet bristled in response, and Will could hear the sound of his cooling fans kicking on to dispel the heat of his anger.

“You would dare?” He hissed, “I am his Creator and his medic. You have no right.”

Lennox resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Throttle down. Sam’s a human, not a mechanoid.”

The medic turned to look at him, his expression so cold that Will could almost feel the temperature drop.

“Keep your opinion to yourself.” Ratchet ground out, “You know nothing about it.”

Will flushed red with anger. “Don’t I? I’ve only seen my daughter three times in the last two years. I could write the _goddamn book_ on making hard choices to protect the ones I love.”

To his surprise, Ratchet’s expression became slightly abashed.

“My apologies, Major.” He gruffly replied, “I intended no disrespect as regards to your offspring.”

“Good.” Lennox snapped, “And while we’re shoving our biggest regrets in each other’s faces, need I remind you that you won’t always be there to protect him? Sooner or later, Sam will be forced to defend himself, from humans or Decepticons. Nevada could have gone very differently if he had been trained.”

Ratchet stared down at him for a long moment, the hum of his cooling fans the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

“I have made a great many concessions already, Major.” He said at last, and his voice was grim rather than angry, “He is a newspark—an infant, by human comparison. He shouldn’t even begin firewalling until his neural connections are stable, which can take our kind hundreds of years to achieve. Instead, he is learning to use the neural-network to attack as well as defend. I don’t know the long-term effects it will have on him. I pray they will be minimal, but I cannot be certain.” 

“I understand, Ratchet.” Lennox replied, although he wasn’t sure that he did, “But the fact Sam has been forced to learn those skills in no way detracts from the necessity for learning these ones. You can’t keep coddling him—it’s going to get him killed.”

Ratchet did not turn or look away, but Lennox was sure he didn’t imagine the way he flinched.

“You say that Sam is human, and that’s true, but he is much more to us.” Ratchet eventually replied.

Lennox didn’t need a neural connection to hear the unspoken _‘and to me’_ at the end of his sentence. He inclined his head slightly in response.

“Then you have to let me help him, Ratchet.” He said. “No more arguing over training plans, no more unreasonable accommodations, and no more coddling him.”

Ratchet stared down at him for a moment longer, before shaking his helm in resignation.

“What choice do I have?” He asked gruffly.

Prime stepped around the desk to clasp Ratchet on the shoulder. “Thank-you, my old friend.”

Ratchet whistled something in Cybertronian, and then he turned and walked from the office. The other mechanoids watched his departure in silence, and although this was supposedly a victory, no one was smiling.

* * *

Sam made his way down the hall with the gel pack pressed against his face. The plastic was cool against his skin, serving to numb the pain from his injuries. He could hear the mess hall before he saw it—a loud din of talking, clinking dishware, and scraping chairs. Sam walked through the double doors and headed straight towards the galley. Although it was an hour before noontime, there was still a lineup of people waiting to be served. 

“Hey, Sam! Over here.”

Sam glanced in the direction of the voice to find Kelley and Mills standing next to the tray table. He nodded to them as he approached, and when he neared, Kelley handed him a tray.

“It’s chili Tuesday.” He said cheerfully. 

Sam’s lips twitched up in a smile. “I’m not a big fan.”

“Who doesn’t like chili?” Kelley asked as they moved to stand at the back of the line, “Beef, onions, tomatoes… it’s like a hug in a bowl.”

Sam shrugged in response. “I don’t like tomatoes.”

“Yeah, that’d do it.” Mills said with a smile.

They stood in silence until they got to the counter, and then they started down the galley. The smell of roast meat and spices filled the air, and Sam’s mouth was watering by the time they reached the entrees. True to Kelley’s word, the lunch options were chili, fried fish, and an unfamiliar dish called kottu.

Sam glanced up at the linesman who was waiting for him to make a selection.

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing at the kottu.

“It’s fried roti with chicken, carrot, onion, and peppers, served with a spicy curry sauce.” He answered, before adding, “It’s from Sri Lanka.” 

His interest piqued, Sam nodded in agreement and the linesman served him up a plate. He accepted it with murmured thanks, before putting it on his tray. Kelley came next, and he ordered the chili with great enthusiasm.

“Every Tuesday.” The linesman said dryly, as he handed Kelley a bowl.

“Every Tuesday.” Kelley agreed.

They made their way down the galley, stopping long enough for Sam to grab a roll from the bakery section, and then they went to the cash registers. The line-up was just as long as it had been at the galley, so it was the better part of ten minutes before they found a seat at the trestle tables dominating the center of the room.

Sam sat down across from Kelley, who was already tucking into his meal.

“I would eat chili seven days a week if they served it.” He said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “It’s so good.”

Mills took a seat next to Sam, his expression one of wry amusement.

“Who flies half-way around the world just to eat something you could find at home?” He asked.

Sam took a tentative bite of his food, and he was pleasantly surprised by the flavor. It was a mixture of savory and spicy, with just enough heat to warm his mouth.

“I do.” Kelley said, shrugging.

“Suit yourself.” Mills replied, cutting into his fish.

“I am.” He returned, spooning up another mouthful of chili.

Sam tore off a piece of his roll, swirling it in the curry sauce before popping it into his mouth. He had barely managed to swallow it when someone clapped him on the back. He jumped, startled, as Morrison sat down beside him. The older man had changed since last Sam saw him, and he was sporting a tidy row of stitches and an impressive bruise along the side of his face.

“Hey, welcome back.” Kelley said, “I heard you got stitches. What happened?”

Morrison shrugged expressively. “I took a fall wrong.”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the equivocation, but Kelley did not seem to notice his surprise.

“Really?” He asked, taking another bite of chili, “You’re the least accident prone person I’ve ever met.”

Morrison’s face was tolerantly amused, and he glanced down at Kelley’s tray.

“It must be Tuesday.” He snarked.

“It is.” Kelley agreed primly. “Are you getting anything to eat?”

“I ate at the ward.” He replied, glancing over at Sam, “Doc-bot is intense when he’s pissed off.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

Morrison turned so that he was leaning backwards, both elbows propped up on the table behind him.

“I can’t believe Lennox stood toe-to-toe with him.” He said, and there was something admiring about his tone, “That was some big dick energy, if I’ve ever seen it.” 

Sam fought the smile that threatened the corners of his mouth. “Classy, Morrison.”

“Major Lennox got in an argument with Ratchet?” Kelley asked, surprised, “What did I miss?”

“About twenty feet of pissed-off robot and a man with balls of steel.” Morrison replied, “You know… just another day on the island.”

Kelley looked openly intrigued, but before he could comment further, a man walking down the aisle wolf-whistled at Morrison.

“Lookin’ good, English.”

Morrison flashed a wide grin in return. “Eat shit, Phillips.”

The other man laughed good-naturedly before continuing down the aisle. Sam took another bite of his meal, chewing slowly as he considered Morrison’s words. He could have told Kelley what had happened, but he didn’t. The consideration left Sam feeling wrong-footed. 

“So, firing range this afternoon.” Morrison said, glancing back at the three of them sitting at the table, “Is everyone excited?”

“Maybe.” Sam replied, “I have no idea whether I’m going.”

He turned his attention inwards, but the mental block that separated his presence from Ratchet’s was still in place. He could glean nothing of the medic’s emotions through the firewall.

“Of course you’re going.” Kelley said, clearly taken aback, “Why wouldn’t you?”

Sam shrugged and speared a piece of chicken with his fork. He wasn’t about to get into the how’s and why’s of Ratchet’s temper with him.

“What is that?” Morrison asked, peering at Sam’s plate.

“I forget what it’s called. It’s Sri Lankan.” He replied.

“Well, it smells good.” He said, glancing towards the galley. “Maybe I’ll grab a plate after all.”

Before he could stand up, the officer nearest the mess hall entrance suddenly boomed out, “At ease!”

Sam twisted in his seat to look in his direction as the talking died away. Lennox walked into the room, holding a familiar bundle of clothing in his arms. He paused long enough to catch sight of Sam, and then he was striding towards him.

“Are you finished eating?” He asked without preamble.

Sam glanced down at his mostly empty plate, before looking back up at Lennox. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Good.” He replied, extending the bundle towards him, “Get ready. We’re going to the firing range.”

Sam accepted the armor with a grimace—he was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that they were the center of attention.

“So Ratchet agreed?” He asked, swinging his leg over the bench and standing up.

“You could say that.” Lennox replied, before glancing at Morrison, Mills, and Kelley in turn.

“Did I stutter?” He asked coolly, “Get a move on.”

The three men rose to their feet at once. Kelley reached across the table to pick up Sam’s tray, and then he started towards the garbage bins at a quick clip. Mills and Morrison followed behind him at a more sedate pace. Lennox watched them go, before turning to look at Sam. His expression was unreadable, but the set of his mouth wasn’t as hard as it had been after his argument with Ratchet.

“After the exercise, we are going to the airfield.” He said as Sam made his way around the table.

“What, why?” Sam asked in confusion.

Lennox’s smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

“It’s time for you to learn the parachute landing fall.”

Sam hurried to catch up with the older man, who was already striding for the exit. 

“Wait, what? Lennox, _what_?”


	7. Chapter 7

Sam fell into step beside Lennox, clutching the armor to his chest. The older man glanced sidelong at him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes?” He asked.

“What do you mean _parachute landing fall_?” Sam demanded.

Lennox’s lips twitched up in clear amusement.

“What do you think I mean?” He asked, stopping long enough to pull open the doors to the residency section, “It’s on your schedule.”

Sam cast his mind back, trying to remember the schedule they had drawn up in July. He hadn’t looked at it in weeks. Lennox nodded towards the door and Sam stepped through it. The older man followed him, letting the door swing shut behind them.

“Weeks eight and nine—jump training.” Will supplied, helpfully.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait… _that’s_ jump training? As in… out of a plane?”

“Yep.” Lennox replied, already striding down the hall again.

“Will, are you insane?” Sam asked, aghast, “I’m not jumping out of an airplane.”

The Major glanced over his shoulder at him. “Sam, you’re embroiled in a civil war where the opposing side can transform into fighter jets. You need to learn how to evacuate an aircraft.”

Sam jogged forward several steps, catching up with him again. “C’mon, Will, I don’t even like flying.”

The smile that he had been fighting finally broke through, spreading across Lennox’s face like a tide.

“Well, I have good news for you, then.” He chuckled. “It’s called jump training for a reason.”

Sam rolled his eyes as the older man stopped in front of his apartment. He pressed his identification badge against the reader set in the wall, and when the locking mechanism disengaged, he pulled open the door. Lennox tipped his head towards the darkened interior, and Sam stepped into the room. The layout was similar in design to Sam’s own apartment. The modest space contained a living room and a bedroom, both furnished in Will’s clean, minimalist style. 

Lennox followed behind him, snapping on the light before turning to look at him.

“Perceptor said you need help getting into that.” He said, nodding to the armor in Sam’s arms, “Let’s get a move on. We’re due at the greens for one o’clock.”

“I’m serious, Will. I don’t like flying.” Sam tried again.

Lennox tipped his head, scrutinizing him for a long moment.

“I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He said at last.

Sam clutched the armor closer to his chest. “But?”

“But nothing.” Will replied with a shrug, “You’re here at your own discretion.”

Sam stared at the older man, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What’s the catch?”

Lennox rolled his eyes, before reaching out to take the bundle from Sam’s arms. He shook it out, tossing the one-piece body suit back at him. “There’s no catch, Sam. I would prefer you to have jump training, but I can’t force you.”

Sam frowned faintly—Lennox hadn’t given him an inch since the first day of training. It seemed unlikely that he would do so now.

“You’re not going to make me?” He asked.

“No, I’m not, but I want you to think about it.” Lennox replied, before glancing at his wristwatch, “Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”

Sam stared at him suspiciously, but Lennox merely quirked an eyebrow. It caused Sam to glance down at the bodysuit he was holding.

“I, uh… I need to get undressed.”

“Really?” Will asked, frowning.

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s what he told me.” 

Will’s frown deepened, but he tipped his head towards the archway. “You know where the bathroom is.”

Sam nodded, before making his way across the living room and into the bedroom. The older man’s bed was made in military fashion, with folded-down blankets and hospital corners. The room was devoid of anything approaching decoration, except for a framed photograph on the bedside table. Sam didn't stop to look at it—it seemed rude.  


He stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He made quick work of stripping down and pulling on the bodysuit. The silvery material was lightweight and flexible, and it was less than five minutes before Sam returned to the living room. Lennox tossed him the body armor next, which was heavier and thicker than the bodysuit. Sam pulled it on one leg at a time, before shrugging the material over his shoulders. He was able to fasten it most of the way himself, but Lennox had to help him with the top.

“This isn’t practical.” Will grumbled.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Sam agreed, pulling on his gloves.

“I’ll talk to Perceptor this afternoon.” Lennox said, stepping away to grab his boots, “You don’t have twenty minutes for a wardrobe change if the Decepticons attack.”

The older man pulled on his boots, before disappearing into his bedroom. Sam could hear the sound of rummaging about, and he reappeared shortly thereafter with a rucksack in each hand. He handed one to Sam, before slinging the other over his shoulder.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said, checking his watch again.

The rucksack felt like it weighed a ton, and Sam had to hide his grimace as he slung it over his shoulder. Lennox pulled open the door for them, and then they started towards the bridge entrance. The North Quad was bustling with activity, this close to the lunch hour. They passed a group of corpsman near the hospital ward and a lieutenant general near the commissary. The older man stopped in his tracks, watching Sam as they walked by. The expression on his face was a mixture of incredulity and surprise.

“I stand out like a sore thumb.” Sam grumbled, once the older man was out of earshot.

“You do.” Lennox agreed. “That’s the point.”

Sam glanced over at him, confusion furrowing his brow. “I’m _supposed_ to stand out?”

“Yes, you are.” He replied, and his voice was surprisingly patient, “Why do you think that might be?”

Sam frowned faintly as he racked his mind for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought the goal was to hide from the Decepticons, not make it easy for them to find me.”

They approached the North Quad doors, which stood stark red against the white hallway. Lennox strode forward, pulling open the door and beckoning Sam to step through. The bridge was similarly busy, with both vehicle and pedestrian traffic. The sound of engines and animated talking echoed down the long, cement tunnel.

“Alright, so you’re in a firefight with the Decepticons.” Lennox said as they started off towards the receiving room, “There are dozens of people around you—soldiers and civilians alike. The Decepticons are shooting to kill. What’s the benefit of the suit?”

Sam frowned. “I guess… they’d realize who I am.”

Lennox nodded encouragingly. “And?”

“And they’d come straight at me.” Sam grumbled.

“The Decepticons use scorched-Earth tactics. Drop a plasma bomb, initiate a reactor meltdown, kill ‘em all and let Primus sort ‘em out.” Lennox explained, “You’re a high-priority target with an alive-only stipulation from Megatron himself. That suit will alert any Decepticon in the vicinity that you’re on the battlefield. It will force them to alter their tactics in our favor.”

Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners. “By putting a huge target on my back.”

Lennox glanced sidelong at him. “You already have a target on your back, Sam. The suit lets us use that to our advantage.”

Sam mulled his words over all the way to the receiving room. It was only after they had stepped through the double doors that he turned to look at Lennox. “Won’t it put everyone around me at risk, though? If they can pick me out of a crowd?”

“Yes.” Lennox replied seriously, “It will.” 

Sam’s frown deepened, but before he could reply, Lennox fixed him with a look. “The suit will readily identify you to the Decepticons. Who else?”

He hesitated for a long moment, before venturing a guess. “NEST?”

Lennox nodded in approval. “That’s correct. We don’t have the neural-network, Sam. We need to be able to identify you quickly on the battlefield so we can move accordingly. You’re our Queen Elizabeth.”

“I’m you’re what-now?” Sam asked as they stepped onto the lift. He unshouldered the rucksack and set it on the floor between his legs. He was aware of the curious glances he was receiving from the cluster of administrative staff standing a short distance away, but he tried not to dwell on it.

“Queen Elizabeth.” Lennox replied, “She wears brightly-colored clothing at public events so that her security can track her in the crowd.”

Before Sam could reply, the sound of an engine caught his attention. He turned, glancing over his shoulder to find Hound accelerating towards them in his alt mode. The Jeep Wrangler flashed its high beams at him in greeting, before slowing to a stop on the lift.

“Hey, Hound.” Sam said, reaching out to thump his hood, “Where’re you headed?”

“He’s coming with us.” Lennox replied, folding his arms over his chest.

Sam glanced over at him in surprise. “Wait, really?”

Lennox had steadfastly refused to let any of the Autobots be involved with his training, except Ironhide and Bluestreak. The Spec Ops team’s involvement had been restricted to infiltration, and even then, only after seven weeks of boot camp.

“I’m making a few concessions.” Will replied, vaguely.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask for clarification, when understanding came all at once.

“Is this about Ratchet?” He asked.

The lights around the perimeter of the lift flashed red as a warning buzzer sounded. A moment later, the lift gave a shuddering lurch, and then it began its rise towards the ceiling. Sam had to adjust his footing in order to keep his balance—Hound rolled forward, giving him something to lean against as situated himself.

Lennox rolled his shoulders in a shrug, but he didn’t say anything else about it. Sam frowned faintly, turning his attention inwards. Although he could _feel_ Ratchet’s presence through their bond space, he couldn’t glean anything from him—no thoughts, emotions, or feelings. It made something uneasy tighten in the pit of Sam’s stomach. The medic had been keeping him at arm’s length ever since the incident earlier that morning.

His thoughts were interrupted as the lift settled into the floor of the bunker with a jarring thud. A moment later, the perimeter lights blinked green and the passengers began making their way towards the exit. Sam turned to look at Hound, who was rocking back and forth on his wheels, as though in expectation.

“We might as well catch a ride.” Lennox said, hefting the rucksack off the ground and approaching the Jeep.

Hound honked at him as he swung open both doors. Lennox tossed the rucksack into the back, before climbing into the driver’s seat. Sam bent down, grabbing his rucksack with both hands, and did the same—albeit with far less ease. Judging by its weight, the rucksack was either filled with bricks or gold bullion. He tried to suppress his grimace, but judging by the smirk curling the corner of Will’s mouth, he wasn’t entirely successful. He gave the older man a pointed look, before climbing into the passenger seat and pulling the door shut behind him. He twisted, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it over his chest, as Hound accelerated across the hangar.

When he was settled, Sam glanced around the cabin. It was all dark leather and charcoal-colored paneling, with forest green accents on the dashboard. “Nice alt, Hound.”

The steering wheel twiddled back and forth. “Thank-you, Sam. The Jeep Wrangler is a sports utility vehicle for the adventurous outdoorsman.”

The tone of the sentry’s voice suggested he was reciting the marketing pitch verbatim. Sam and Lennox shared a good-natured laugh as they passed through the exit into the midday sun. The Jeep turned onto the roadway, and then he accelerated to thirty-five miles per hour.

“Well, I like it.” Sam said, grinning broadly, “It suits you. We should go off-roading sometime.”

The lights on the dashboard brightened with obvious enthusiasm. “The ground bridge technicians in Nevada have spoken about off-roading. I believe I would enjoy it a great deal.”

Sam gave the center console an affectionate pat. “Well, then, it’s a date.”

The Jeep lurched suddenly, as though he had slipped a gear.

“I would never afford Bumblebee such disrespect.” Hound said, clearly alarmed.

Sam opened his mouth to reassure the sentry, when he realized that Lennox had turned to look at him. The older man was regarding him closely, eyes flitting across Sam’s face as though searching for something. Sam went cold all over, before flushing all the way to the roots of his hair.

“It’s none of Bumblebee’s business.” He managed to reply.

Hound _chirruped_ a distressed-sounding denial as he slowed to a stop at the perimeter fence. The soldier on-duty saluted them, before circling the vehicle as he completed his security check. When he finished, he nodded to his companion, who raised the boom gate for them to pass. Hound rolled forward, and once he had crossed the fence, he accelerated in the direction of the field firing range.

“So, my first live action exercise.” Sam said, staring steadfastly out the window, “What am I supposed to expect?”

Lennox was silent for a beat, and then he leaned back against the driver’s seat. “You’ll walk the grounds with the platoon, and then we’ll break you into smaller groups for the exercise.”

“Cool. Cool.” Sam replied, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand, “So what’s Hound doing?”

“Each group will be sent with an officer who’ll oversee the exercise.” Lennox replied, drumming his fingers against his knee, “Hound will be going with you.”

Sam felt a rush of pleasant surprise. “Really? Hound, that’s great.”

“I was assigned to the exercise this morning, but I would have volunteered.” Hound replied.

The Jeep slowed as he turned onto the packed dirt path that led to the field firing range. The white sand stood out in stark contrast to the lush vegetation that grew on either side of it. As they trundled down the trail, Sam caught sight of the platoon waiting near the entrance to the course. They were dressed in full combat gear, including tactical vests, balaclavas, and helmets. He could see Morrison and Kelley standing near the parking lot, but he couldn’t find Mills in the crowd. Ironhide, Bluestreak, and First Aid stood in their bipedal modes, watching the recruits with sharp optics.

Hound rolled onto the grass next to the perimeter fence, before coming to a stop. Sam unbuckled his seatbelt as the doors swung open, and then he climbed out of the cab. The sun shone down on them, unimpeded by cloud cover, and the ground was steaming from the heat. Sam grabbed the rucksack out of the back of the Jeep, before walking around to join Lennox where he was standing near the roadside. Hound rolled back several paces and transformed, straightening to his full height as soon as the last panel slid into place.

“Alright, let’s go.” Lennox said, grasping the handles of his rucksack and striding towards the recruits.

Sam hurried after him, trying not to grimace. Ironhide and Bluestreak rumbled in greeting as they approached, but First Aid took one look at Sam, before stiffening from helm to pede. The medic turned on his heel, squealing something indignant-sounding at Ironhide. The sound was so grating that Sam could almost feel it in his back teeth. The other recruits exchanged glances with one another, before giving the two Autobots a wider berth. Ironhide weathered whatever First Aid was saying to him without comment or complaint. When the medic was finished his tirade, Ironhide rolled his massive pauldrons in a shrug. First Aid jerked back, as though in shock, before he whistled something pitchy and sharp-sounding. When Ironhide didn’t reply, beyond an unimpressed look, the medic stepped away, folding down into his alt mode so quickly that his chassis rocked from the impact with the ground.

Sam looked from Ironhide, to the ambulance, and back again. “I’m guessing that was about me.”

“First Aid is here as an observer.” Ironhide replied, before adding coolly, “A silent observer.”

The ambulance _honked_ loudly in protest, but otherwise he said nothing in response. 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Lennox cut in sharply, before turning to look at the recruits. “Form up and sound off. Let’s go.”

Sam dropped the rucksack onto the ground beside Lennox, and then he made his way towards the recruits. They formed four lines of five, and Sam took his spot at the end of the last line. The soldiers called out their names in alphabetical order, one after the other, and Sam dutifully called out, “Witwicky” when it came to him.

Williams and Epps joined Lennox, standing on either side of the commanding officer. Lennox stood with his arms akimbo, surveying the recruits with a critical eye.

“Attention!” Epps barked, and the other recruits immediately snapped into position. Sam straightened his back, but otherwise he didn’t move.

Lennox began walking down the rows of soldiers, his eyes sharp and searching. “We will be conducting a live-fire exercise this afternoon. We will walk the range as a group, and then you will break into units for the drill. You are being judged on speed, competency, and marksmanship. Do you understand?”

The group responded immediately with a loud, “Yes, sir!”

“Good.” Lennox replied, his voice pitched to carry, “Are there any questions?”

Sam glanced around the rows of stone-faced recruits, who stood in perfect silence. Lennox waited a beat, and then he gave a sharp nod of his head.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said, striding towards the entrance of the range. The recruits fell into step behind him, in perfect formation, and Sam followed after them. Epps brought up the rear, and when Sam glanced sidelong at him, the older man favored him with a broad grin.

They walked the full length of the course, which Sam learned was two hundred meters long and nearly as wide. The terrain began as open field with obstacle equipment set up in even intervals, before transitioning to ditches and foxholes. Beyond that, there were sheets of plywood and large barrels arranged in clusters for tactical cover, before another open field that transitioned to palm trees and scrub brush on the far side of the course. Lennox pointed out the targets as they walked—some were human-shaped, while others were amorphous in design. The black targets were kill-shots, the white targets were civilians. Sam listened intently, filing it all away for the exercise. He had only ever fired a rifle while in a stationary position, and only ever at targets of set distances. The obstacle course was an unknown quantity, and he was excited and nervous in equal measures.

The sun was high above them by the time they made it back to the beginning of the course. Lennox, Epps, and Williams separated the recruits into four groups of five. Sam found himself in a group with Morrison, Kelley, and two other recruits that he only knew by name.

“So, you made it.” Morrison said, by way of greeting.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sam replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sharp blast of a whistle. Sam turned, watching as the first group started down the course. Epps followed on their heels, sharp-eyed and serious. They disappeared over the rise, and shortly thereafter, the sound of staccato gunshots filled the air.

“I hate going last.” Kelley said, rocking on his heels, “It’s such a long wait.”

One of the recruits that Sam didn’t know well, a woman named Harper, hummed in agreement.

“It wouldn’t be as bad if we could observe.” She replied.

“Where’s the fun in that?” The other recruit drawled.

He was tall and olive-skinned, with dark, curly hair that suggested a Middle-Eastern or Mediterranean heritage. His appearance was at odds, however, with his Jersey accent, which was thick enough to come out of a Jello mold.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Morrison replied, all dry sarcasm, “Waiting around in the blistering heat is always a treat.”

It was only then that Sam realized the other recruits were sweating. His eyebrows drew up in surprise, as he quickly assessed himself—he could feel the heat on his face, but otherwise he felt perfectly comfortable. He glanced down at the suit with a great deal more appreciation.

 _Human design tolerances for the win._ He thought, wryly.

His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of Lennox and Hound. The Major had donned tactical gear since Sam last saw him, and he was carrying an M4 assault rifle in his arms. The recruits came to attention as he approached, all traces of humor gone in an instant.

“Alright, listen up.” Lennox began, his voice hard and no-nonsense, “Your objective is to reach the podium in the center of the field in fifteen minutes. You can choose your own route, but you must take down every target in your path. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The recruits chorused together.

Lennox nodded in approval. “Good. I expect the Ambassador to be returned with as many holes as he started with. Is that crystal clear?”

“Yes, sir!” They replied, loudly and in unison.

Sam fixed the older man with a flat look. “Thanks, Lennox. Your confidence is inspiring.”

The older man quirked an eyebrow at him, before turning back to the recruits. “As I mentioned, you will be judged based on speed, competency, and marksmanship. This is a test, and you will be ranked according to your performance. Do you understand?”

His question was met with a chorus of affirmatives. Lennox nodded tersely, before turning on his heel and walking towards the group of recruits waiting next to the range entrance.

“Who will take point?” Harper asked, suddenly all business.

“I’ll take point.” The olive-skinned man, Bennett, replied, “Morrison take left-flank, Kelley take right. Mr. Ambassador, you should stay in the rear-guard. Sir.”

Sam felt vaguely insulted, but he knew that was absurd. He had the least training and experience of any of them.

“Alright.” He replied.

Bennett nodded sharply. “Alright, good. I thought we would take the centerline to the podium. Any objections?”

“It’s the clearest path, but it’s also the most exposed.” Morrison put in, thoughtfully.

“Maybe we should hook around the left side of the course instead?” Kelley suggested, before adding, “It has more cover, and we won’t lose much time.”

Bennett seemed to consider that before nodding. “Alright, we’ll go left. We’ll need to take cover into account if we’re being judged on competency.”

Their discussion was interrupted by another blast of a whistle. They all turned, watching as the third group started off down the range. Bennett turned around first, his expression suddenly battle-hard. “Alright, we’ll use a bounding overwatch advance. Harper, you’re with the Ambassador.”

Sam’s face flushed with embarrassment as he was forced to ask, “Sorry… what’s that?”

Bennett glanced at him, as though in surprise.

“My apologies, sir. I just assumed.” He replied, “A bounding overwatch approach, also known as leapfrogging, is an alternating system of cover-fire and advancement. I will go first, scouting the way, while Kelley and Morrison will cover me. When I am in position, I will provide cover-fire for them as they advance. Then, they will do the same for you. Do you understand?”

“Uh. I think so.” Sam replied, blushing hotly.

“Don’t worry, Sam. It’s very intuitive.” Kelley assured him with a cheerful smile, “Just follow Harper’s lead. You’ll be fine.”

Sam was spared from stammering a reply by Hound, whose holoform materialized in front of them. The reaction was predictable—the recruits startled in surprise or stumbled back a step. Hound didn’t seem to notice, for he was smiling broadly.

“Alright, it’s time to begin.” He said, before extending a familiar object towards Sam, “Here. Perceptor is insisting.”

Sam accepted the environmental mask with a moue of distaste. “Is this really necessary?”

“He seems to think so.” Hound replied.

Sam grimaced deeply, but he affixed the mask to his face all the same. The apparatus formed an airtight seal, and he fastened the straps behind his head. When he lowered his hands, it was to find Morrison, Kelley, Harper, and Bennett staring at him with identical looks of incredulity on their faces.

“It’s an environmental mask.” He explained, lamely.

Morrison folded his arms over his chest, tilting his head considerately.

“Listen, I’m just going to say what we’re all thinking.” He said, “You look like Sub-Zero.”

The words surprised a huff of laughter out of him, and Sam rolled his eyes in response.

“His little brother, maybe.” He replied dryly.

Morrison gave him an easy grin. “Hey, it’s a compliment. Mortal Kombat is a classic.”

Sam reached up, adjusting the straps on the mask. “That movie’s, like, five years older than I am.”

The older man groaned, his hand flying to his heart. “That hurts, Sam.”

“Enough chatter.” Hound interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically hard, “See to your weapons.”

Their humor evaporated, replaced with silent intent. They made their way over towards the military Hummer that was parked next to the entrance. The Quartermaster handed them each a weapon in turn, plus two additional magazines of ammunition. Sam slung his rifle over his shoulder, before tucking the mags into the belt around his waist. The Quartermaster extended a helmet towards him, which he accepted with murmured thanks, and then he walked over to the staging area.

“Any questions?” Bennett asked, voice clipped.  


“No.” Sam replied, pulling on his helmet.

“Stay with Harper and follow her lead.” Morrison reminded him, as he checked his weapon for a final time, “You’ll be fine.”

They took up their agreed-upon positions—Bennet in front, flanked by Morrison and Kelley, who were in turn flanked by Sam and Harper. Hound’s holoform took up the rear, his expression serious and intent. The Range Master lifted a yellow flag and blasted his whistle, and then they were off.

Bennett jogged ahead, his rifle held at the ready, as they followed behind him in pairs. Sam’s heart was in his throat, pounding in a mixture of excitement and nerves. Bennett took cover, waving for Morrison and Kelley to advance. Harper clapped him on the shoulder, before ducking down behind a cluster of steel barrels. Sam followed after her, dropping into a loose crouch. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings—the warmth of sunshine on his face, the smell of salt water, the feeling of the weapon in his hands.

“I’ll take right side, you take left.” Harper said.

It took Sam a moment to realize that she was referring to the targets. He nodded once, and when Morrison waved them forward, they jogged ahead. Harper raised her rifle, squeezing off two rounds into a target near the climbing obstacle.

“Nice shot.” Sam said, as he ducked behind the plywood barrier set up for tactical cover.

“Thanks.” She replied with an easy grin, before turning to wave Bennett forward, “There’re two targets coming up on the left—you’ll need to get them if the others don’t.”

Sam nodded in understanding as Bennett took point. Morrison and Kelley advanced next, taking cover near the cement culvert that Sam had hidden in just that morning. 

“Alright, go!” Harper commanded.

Sam obeyed without hesitation, bringing up his rifle to fire two shots into each target. He couldn’t tell whether he had hit them before he was taking cover behind the next obstacle. Harper followed, crouching down beside him a moment later. 

“Not bad.” She complimented.

“Did I hit either of them?” He asked.

“I think so.” She replied. “It’ll be in our debriefing.”

They continued like that—advancing, firing, and taking cover—across the range. The terrain slowly transitioned from obstacles to ditches and foxholes. Sam landed hard in the first shallow pit, shimmying down so his head was below the ground-line.

“Alright, we need to cross the field and then traverse the trenches on the other side.” Harper said, watching for Morrison’s signal to move forward, “The trenches are deep. Watch your footing.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I understand.”

She nodded, before clapping him on the shoulder. He climbed to his feet, and together they scrabbled out of the foxhole and across the field. There were three targets on Sam’s left—one black, two white—and he raised his rifle, staring down the scope as he put the black target in his crosshairs. He squeezed the trigger, shooting twice, before following Harper into the next ditch.

“You’re getting better.” She said, “You definitely hit that. Well, one of them, anyway.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when he became aware of a strange vibration. It seemed to be coming from all around them. He frowned, pressing his hand flat against the ground. The vibration was faint but unmistakable, even through his glove.

“What is that?” Harper asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “An earthquake?”

Sam’s frown deepened. “I don’t know.”

The neural-network suddenly brightened in his mind, a tumultuous mixture of _sensation_ and _impression_ that left him reeling.

 _//Sam_ — _!//_

Bumblebee’s cry was drowned out in a massive sonic boom. At the same time, an alien ship appeared in the sky, seemingly from thin air. It was shaped like a spade, with a tapered bow and a wide aft. Sam recognized it immediately.

 _The Upstart_. 

Sam’s stomach bottomed out at the sight. Before he had a chance to react, the ship unleashed a volley of plasma fire directly into the Downtown core. He watched in horror as great plumes of smoke began billowing into the sky.

In the next instant, Jazz was in his head.

 _//Filtering firewall—now!//_ He commanded sharply.

At the same time, Hound’s holoform grabbed him by the bicep and hauled him to his feet. He half-dragged, half-shoved Sam across the field in the direction opposite the _Upstart._

“Morrison, Kelley, with me.” He barked.

The two men scrambled out of the ditch, falling into step behind them. Bennett was taking cover further down the field, and he evidentially heard the order, for he hurried to join them. 

“What are our orders, sir?” He asked gruffly.

“Take cover, protect the Ambassador, and wait for reinforcements.” Hound replied.

They crested a shallow hill, before hurrying down the opposite side. The dirt was loose, and it cascaded down the slope with every footfall. They crossed a narrow ditch before Hound directed them to take shelter beneath an [angled climbing wall](https://www.survivalkit.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/ob.jpg). Sam went first, stepping under the structure. Harper, Morrison, and Kelley followed behind, while Bennett stood in the entryway. The climbing wall was angled away from the Downtown, but there were gaps in the wooden slats that let the light slant through.

It also provided them a clear view of the _Upstart_ as it continued its full frontal assault on the base. The energy barrier had been activated, but it rippled ominously with every volley. Sam's stomach tightened with dread and fear, and he reached for Bumblebee’s familiar presence. The scout smoothed across his mind, reassuring and calm—it served to bolster Sam’s courage.

“Alright, so which one of you assholes is playing this game on hard mode?” Morrison asked tightly.

Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. “That would probably be me.” 

“Are we safe here?” Bennett asked, directing his question towards Hound, “Should we press deeper into the forest?”

Sam’s stomach twisted with apprehension.

“The forest won’t help.” He said, quietly, “Not if they mean to find us.”

Hound expression was inscrutable, but he shook his head in response. “Our orders are to maintain position. The _Upstart_ isn’t here for Sam.”

As if his words were a portent of doom, three jets emerged from the underbelly of the ship and streaked across the sky towards them. Sam’s mouth went dry with fear, and he pulled his firewalls closer still around his mind.

“Hound…?” He asked, uncertainly.

The holoform’s face tightened with resolve. “We have our orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Notes:** Shit meet fan.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you so much for your continued support! It means the absolute world to me.

The three jets banked hard, crossing the distance between the _Upstart_ and the firing range in a matter of seconds. Sam crouched down beneath the angled climbing wall, scarcely daring to breathe. He was aware of everything, all at once—the humid, early afternoon air; the sound of Morrison shifting his weight from foot to foot beside him; the tumultuous _thrum_ of the neural-network, alight with sensation and impression that came too quickly to understand. Instinctively, Sam drew his filtering firewall closer around his mind, until it fit like a second skin. He could detect nothing of the three Decepticons on the neural-net, but he knew they were there, searching for an advantage. Searching for _him._

Hound made a cutting motion with his hand, and the four soldiers at Sam’s back crouched down as the jets roared by overhead. They were gone too quickly to identify them. He half-turned, craning his head as they banked hard, circling back towards them.

“Hound…?” He asked again, anxiety bleeding into his voice.

 _//I will come as soon as I can, but I’ve been delayed.//_ Bumblebee answered him, _//Stay with Hound until I arrive.//_

The scout’s voice was perfectly even, without a hint of strain. Prowl would have been impressed.

“It’s alright Sam.” Hound replied at the same time, “They don’t know where you are.”

The sentry’s voice had gone battlefield-hard. It was disconcerting, coming from Hound, who was usually so even-tempered. Sam glanced over his shoulder, taking in the rigid set of the holoform’s shoulders and the tightness to his jaw. He wondered whether Hound even realized the nonverbal cues he was projecting. Probably not, if his goal was to keep him calm.

Sam swallowed, working moisture back into his mouth, as he reached for Bumblebee again. _//What do you mean you’ve been delayed?//_

His bonded didn’t offer him false reassurances, which spoke volumes in and of itself.

 _//I’m at the_ Ark _. We can’t lower the energy barrier until the Downtown has been evacuated.//_

Sam’s stomach sank as understanding came to him, hard and fast. The _Ark_ was located on the northern airfield within the boundaries of the energy field. The location had been chosen to protect the flagship from hit-and-run attacks until its defenses were fully operational again. Bumblebee had been working on the communications array that morning, which meant that he (and every other Autobot still on base) was effectively pinned in place.

 _//How long?//_ He asked, dreading the answer.

 _//A full evacuation takes upwards of fifteen minutes.//_ Bumblebee replied.

The sound of jet engines grew louder as the three Decepticons made their second approach. He angled his head upwards as they streaked overhead, flying back in the direction of the road.

“Brace yourselves.” Hound warned.

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the bright flash of plasma fire lit up the sky. The jets banked hard, avoiding the volley, before two of the three broke off, heading east, as the other turned west and continued its circuitous route around the perimeter of the firing range. The two jets returned fire, blowing great clouds of dirt into the air with each strike.

“Hound, are you over there?” Sam demanded, turning to look at the holoform.

“Yes, we are.” He replied, his expression devoid of emotion or micro-expression. The cumulative effect was deeply unsettling. “Please forgive me, I must focus on the offensive.”

Sam swallowed his reply, not wanting to be a bigger distraction than he likely already was. He turned, looking through the wooden slats towards the third jet, which was crisscrossing the firing range at even intervals. It didn’t take a tactical genius, which Sam was not, to figure out that it was following a search pattern.

 _//Who?//_ Sam asked, watching the jet as it banked and started back across the field.

 _//Slipstream.//_ Bumblebee replied.

There was a distinct impression of _vigilance_ across their bond, and he knew that Bumblebee was watching the jet as well.

 _//Who is he?//_ Sam asked.

 _//Slipstream is a femme.//_ Bumblebee replied, to Sam’s surprise. There were few femmes among the Decepticon ranks, _//She is a Seeker and a spy.//_

There was something distasteful about the way Bumblebee said her name, and Sam filed that away to ask him about later. Now, he glanced over his shoulders at the other two jets who were exchanging fire with the Autobots on the ground. _//And the others?//_

Bumblebee’s voice, when it came, was dark with animosity. _//Blitzwing and Thrust.//_

Sam’s heart skipped a beat at the confirmation that Blitzwing was in the fray. A triple-changer would really throw a wrench in things, if he took a mind to do so—especially one as un-hinged as Blitzwing.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a bolt of brilliant blue energy streaked from the ground to the sky, catching one of the two jets where the fuselage would have been in a human aircraft. The jet banked into a tight barrel roll, smoke sputtering up from its side as it took evasive manoeuvres. Sam couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face—he recognized Bluestreak’s handiwork when he saw it.

“What’s that?” Morrison hissed urgently, his hand coming down on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam jerked around in time to see something detach itself from Slipstream’s underbelly. It looked like a giant, glistening water droplet. The distance between them made it difficult to estimate the size, but it was easily as large as a medicine ball. The orb seemed suspended in mid-air for the space of a heartbeat, and then it started falling towards the ground.

“Sam!” Hound said, urgently, “Listen to me—“

Sam tore his eyes away from the sky, but before the holoform could finish his sentence, everything whited out in a flash as brilliant as a nuclear explosion. Sam cried out, more in surprise than in pain, and clapped his hands over his face. It did little to alleviate the strange after-glow playing out on the back of his eyelids, like the negative of a photograph.

“What the fuck was that?” Morrison swore, and judging by the strained note in his voice, he had been similarly affected.

Sam waited for a heartbeat, half expecting to be obliterated by a nuclear shockwave, but nothing happened. He lowered his hands, forcing open his watering eyes, only to find… nothing. The field firing range looked exactly as it had only moments ago. There was no blast crater or fiery inferno or smoke billowing into the sky. It looked as though the attack, whatever it had been, had never happened.

His brow furrowed in confusion, as Slipstream screamed by overhead. He turned, opening his mouth to demand an explanation, when he realized that Hound’s holoform was missing.

Sam’s stomach bottomed out as he looked around, frantically. _//Where’s Hound? What happened to him?//_

Bumblebee and Ratchet replied to his question simultaneously.

_//Hound is all right—//_

_//Slipstream deployed a nullifier bomb—//_

_//—it was only his holoform that was affected.//._

_//—It dampens carrier waves, including the frequency used by holoform technology.//_

“Wait, where’s Hound?” Bennett asked sharply.

Morrison scrubbed the back of his arm across his face, blotting away the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. “He was just right there.”

 _//Sam, listen to me.//_ Bumblebee continued, the hardness in his voice betraying his tension, _//You need to re-group and get to the northern airfield.//_

Sam’s head was swimming from the strain of following three conversations at once, while also trying to maintain his firewalls.

 _//Hound said to wait for reinforcements.//_ He managed to reply.

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Kelley asked tightly.

Harper raised her radio to her mouth, thumbing the press-to-talk button, but a crackle of static was her only response. “The radios are dead.”

_//Slipstream will locate you before then—//_

_//Bumblebee is right.//_ Ratchet cut in, voice hard and grim, _//Without the dampening effect of Hound’s extended sensory array, your discovery is inevitable.//_

“We were given orders, Bennett. We know what we have to do.” Morrison replied, his voice overlapping Ratchet and Bumblebee, making it impossible to follow all three conversations simultaneously.

Sam screwed his eyes shut. “Would everyone just _shut up_? I can’t listen to you all at once!”

A shocked silence fell around him, interrupted only by the distant roar of jet engines and the _thuoom_ of plasma fire. Sam forced open his eyes, staring through the slats and across the field.

“Tell me what to do.” He said, grimly.

Bennett and Morrison exchanged an uncertain look, before Bennett said, “We were ordered to protect—“

“Not you.” Sam bit out, sharper than he intended.

 _//Skirt the edges of the perimeter where the vegetation is thickest.//_ Bumblebee commanded, _//Stay low and stay together. Ironhide has sent the other recruits into the field. With any luck, it will confuse Slipstream’s sensors long enough for you to reach the airfield.//_

Dread pooled in Sam’s gut, heavy and terrible. _//And if it doesn’t work?//_

Bumblebee was silent for a heartbeat, before he replied. _//It will.//_

Sam straightened up, turning to look at the other recruits. “Our cover has been compromised. We need to head north, towards the airfield.”

Bennett’s thick eyebrows drew together as his mouth turned down at the corners. “Sir, our orders were to shelter-in-place.”

Sam fixed the man with a pointed look. “Our orders have changed.”

His eyes flitted from one person to the next, taking in their confusion and uncertainty. He could only imagine what he looked like himself—he felt too hot and too cold, all at once. He was sure that his face must have been the color of day-old oatmeal.

It was Kelley who finally spoke, breaking the building tension.

“But sir… how do you know that?”

Sam’s lips twitched up in a faint, self-deprecating smile. “It’s complicated.”

 _//Get ready, Sam.//_ Bumblebee cut in, sharply.

Sam slung his rifle strap over his shoulder, adjusting the weapon to lie comfortably across his chest. “We need to skirt the edges of the perimeter where the vegetation is thickest. Any preference for who’ll take the lead?”

There was a weighted pause, and then Bennett straightened to his full height. “I will. Morrison and Kelley follow behind, Harper and the Ambassador will take the rear. Stay tight, folks.”

The older man made to step out from beneath the wooden structure, but a warning _thrum_ from Bumblebee had Sam raise a restraining hand. “Wait.”

Bennett stopped mid-stride, turning to look over his shoulder at him. Less than a second later, Slipstream streaked across the sky on another pass. Her hull glinted brightly in the early afternoon sunshine, before she vanished behind them.

 _//Go. Now.//_ Bumblebee commanded.

“Go.” Sam said, nodding curtly.

They surged forward, breaking cover as they jogged towards the opposite side of the field. The open space was dotted with obstacle equipment of all makes and sizes. They ran between a knotted rope bridge meant for belly crawling and a series of wooden hurdles without incident. They got about a hundred feet, when Sam felt Bumblebee’s warning—barely more than a press against his mind.

“Take cover.” He hissed.

“Take cover.” Morrison repeated, tossing the directive up to Bennett, who ducked between two vertical climbing walls. The others followed behind him, pressing their backs against the wooden slats as Slipstream made another pass. Sam thanked God, Primus, or whatever benevolent governing principle of the universe that had her pass to the west, instead of overtop them.

Bumblebee _nudged_ him meaningfully, and Sam waved his hand in a _‘Go on’_ motion. Bennett nodded in understanding, and he stepped around the vertical walls and continued his jog towards the perimeter of the field. Morrison and Kelley followed on his heels, with Sam and Harper not far behind. The sounds of battle were distant and distracting—the high-pitched charge of capacitors, the scream of laser-fire, the earth-shattering _boom_ of ion canons. Sam struggled to ignore it, to focus on the matter at hand.

They were almost to the tree cover when their luck ran out.

His eyes were on Morrison’s back, intent of following in the other man’s footsteps, when mental fingers dug painfully into his mind. He stumbled over his own two feet, turning his attention inwards at the same time that a silvery glow materialized in the darkness of the neural-network.

_//Found you.//_

The voice was silky and feminine, practically purring the words into his mind. Adrenaline surged, hot and fast, as he grasped for his firewalls. Bumblebee was faster—Sam couldn’t make sense of the flashes of motion and impact, but a moment later, Slipstream’s mental presence was gone.

 _//Go!//_ Bumblebee snapped.

“Run!” Sam yelled, abandoning all pretence of stealth as he started hauling ass towards the tree line. The four soldiers obeyed without question, forming up around him in a loose semi-circle, their guns held at the ready. He pulled the firewalls around himself as he ran, opting for protection over finesse. Bumblebee helped him, forcing his defenses into place and shoring them up—although _how_ he did it was beyond him.

They made it less than fifty yards when Slipstream landed hard on the ground in front of them. The Seeker planted a servo on her knee strut, pushing up to her full height as she finished transforming. She was tall and lithe, paneled in eggplant purple and emerald green—a fetching combination, on anyone else.

“Come along, little Prime.” She said, beckoning with her clawed digits, “We have need of you.”

Sam didn’t hesitate—he lifted his gun, flicking off the safety and finding the trigger in one smooth motion. He squeezed off a half a dozen shots, aiming for her optics and praying for a miracle. The four recruits did the same—Morrison and Kelley closing ranks around him, while Harper and Bennett fanned out to either side.

Slipstream stumbled back, raising a servo to protect her face as bullets _pinged_ off her armor. Sam could see the evidence of her rage in the aggressive spread of her wing flaps.

 _//Run, Sam.//_ Jazz commanded, catching him by surprise, _//You’re no match for an airframe with an attitude problem.//_

Sam didn’t stop to ponder how Jazz was inside his head when his mind was wrapped in firewalls. Instead, he glanced towards the tree line as he considered their escape. Bennett seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he bellowed, “Harper, cover fire! Morrison, Kelley, take the Ambassador and go.”

Morrison and Kelley, experienced and loyal soldiers that they were, obeyed without argument. Morrison shoved him with the butt of his rifle, hard, as he nodded towards the forest. Sam squeezed off three more shots before breaking into a dead run. Morrison followed hot on his heels as Kelley covered their escape, and then he followed behind them.

Slipstream shrieked something sharp-sounding in Cybertronian. A moment later, her voice was drowned out by the sound of Harper’s agonized screaming.

Sam’s step faltered, but Morrison grabbed him by the arm, pushing him forward. “Don’t turn around.”

The older man’s voice was grim and serious, and Sam reluctantly obeyed. They broke the tree cover a moment later, leaving the open field behind them. Sam was breathing hard, terror and guilt and anger twisting up his insides.

“Don’t be a fool, Prime.” Slipstream called after them, her voice wafting over the air, “This will not end well for you.”

Kelley glanced sidelong at him as they made their way deeper into the vegetation. “Is she talking to you?”

Sam grimaced as he stepped over the slender trunk of a fallen palm tree. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m starting to see that.” Morrison replied.

The narrow forest was a combination of tall, leafy trees and dense undergrowth. Their progress was consistent, but slow going. Sam and Morrison stopped briefly to help Kelley through a tangle of vines that got caught around his legs, before they continued on. They made it another hundred yards or so when there was an ominous _cracking_ sound behind them. The three of them turned around in perfect unison, stilling as they strained to locate the noise. It was accompanied by the rustle of vegetation, barely more than a whisper, before the noise faded away again.

All at once, Sam was back in the forest on the night of Megatron’s attack. He could practically smell the acrid smoke from the burning buildings. He felt trapped—no, he felt _hunted_.

“We need to get out of here.” Sam stammered, his mouth suddenly dry with fear, “We have to—“

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a figure emerged from the shadows cast by palm fronds and ferns. Its jointed legs came first—thin and spindly, tapered in razor-sharp tips—followed by its body, squat and round and glinting silver in the mellow light. Sam watched, transfixed as its head unfolded from somewhere on its back, slotting into place as a single, ruby-red optic flickered to life.

“Run.” Morrison ordered, flatly.

Sam backed up several steps as another micro-con emerged from the undergrowth, followed by another and then another. Soon there were a dozen optics glowing ominously from the shadows.

“Run!” Morrison roared, bringing up his rifle as he started firing.

Sam braced his feet in the soft loam of the forest floor, before lifting his rifle and squeezing off a dozen rounds. Kelley followed suit, coming to stand at Sam’s side, as the three of them began backpedalling away from the micro-cons. The drones advanced together, like insects from a hive-mind, but although they slashed their razor-sharp appendages and tittered to each other, they didn’t attack.

“I ordered you to leave!” Morrison growled, shooting a micro-con square in the faceplates. Its ruby-red optic cracked, sending sparks and crystal shards cascading to the ground.

“I’m not in your chain of command.” Sam bit back, squeezing off rounds as they retreated.

Morrison said something in reply, but his voice was lost to the roar of gunfire. Sam caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he pivoted on his heel, snapping off three shots to a micro-con that had flanked them. The creature shrieked, darting side to side as it tried to shake off the bullets. Sam tracked it with the muzzle of his rifle, squeezing off two more rounds before his weapon clicked uselessly.

“I’m out. Cover me.” Sam said, falling back as Morrison and Kelley took his place. He ejected his magazine, letting it fall to the forest floor, forgotten, as he yanked a second mag out of his belt. He slotted it into place, driving the heel of his hand into it to ensure a good fit, and then he started firing again.

Morrison swung his rifle to one side and shot a micro-con that had darted forward aggressively. His shot struck true, causing the creature’s optic to shatter. It reared back on its hind legs, convulsing, as it crumbled to the ground. It twitched several times and stilled, before being immediately replaced by another micro-con. A third drone rushed forward, slashing at Sam’s ankles with its front legs. The impact hurt, but it didn’t tear through his armor. He angled his rifle downwards, squeezing off three shots. The first two pinged uselessly off its armor, but the third caught the drone in the gap between its chest plating. The micro-con immediately collapsed into a pile of sharp limbs, the light in its optic fading away.

They made it another half a dozen yards or so, before Sam became aware of a prickling sense of unease. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder, and then his blood went cold. There were another dozen micro-cons behind them, waving their sharp appendages and swaying back and forth in silence.

Sam went perfectly still, swallowing against the taste of fear that flooded his mouth.

“Morrison, stop.” He managed.

The older man obviously heard him, though his voice had been little more than a ragged whisper. He turned, following Sam’s gaze, before his face twisted in resignation.

“Well, fuck.” He said, succinctly.

 _//What do I do?//_ Sam asked, to no one in particular.

 _//Three minutes, Sam.//_ Bumblebee replied, _//Just hold on.//_

“What do we do?” Kelley asked, echoing Sam’s unspoken question.

Morrison swung his rifle between the micro-cons in front of them and those that had flanked them from behind. His expression was grim as he sized up the situation and, evidentially, came to the same conclusion that Sam had—they were trapped.

“Well, we can either stay here until we run out of bullets or we can make a run for it.” Morrison replied tightly, “Any preference on how you want to die, Jason?”

A micro-con rushed forward, slashing at Sam’s shins with its front legs. Sam stumbled backwards, squeezing off two bullets, but the micro-con was undeterred by the attack. It darted closer still, close enough to catch Sam’s left knee in its mandibles. It squeezed, hard enough that Sam felt the crunch of bone, before yanking him backwards. Sam pitched forward, landing in an awkward heap on the ground. The micro-con dug its legs into the forest floor, yanking him towards the underbrush several inches at a time.

Sam brought up his gun, firing directly into the micro-cons face. The creature shrieked, gripping Sam’s leg with enough force to break bone, before it released its hold. He scrambled backwards as Kelley hooked one hand under his armpit, hauling him to his feet.

“Are you alright?” He asked, face flushed red with exertion.

Sam tested his weight, and was relieved when his leg didn’t give out from under him. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Why aren’t they attacking all at once?” Morrison asked, suddenly, “Why draw it out?”

Sam brought up his rifle, moving to stand back-to-back with the other two men.

“They need me alive.” Sam replied flatly, “I’d make a poor hostage with a bullet in my skull.”

“Well, bully for you, then.” Morrison said, firing more rounds as two micro-cons darted forward, “I’d say they’re at the end of their patience.”

Sam shot at a third micro-con that had separated from the pack, while Kelley shot at two others.

“Yeah, I’d say you’re right.” He replied grimly.

The swarm of silver metal pressed forward, tittering to one another as they advanced. Sam fired three more rounds at the nearest drone, and then his gun clicked uselessly. He reached for his waist, looking for another magazine, only to realize that he was out of ammunition.

“I’m out.” Sam said, his stomach sinking with dread. He unslung the rifle from around his neck, prepared to use it as a club.

“I’m on my last magazine.” Kelley replied, tightly, as he squeezed off another shot.

“On my signal—make a break for it.” Morrison said, shifting his weight, “We’ll cover you.”

Sam shook his head in refusal. “No. I’m not leaving you here to die.”

“With all due respect, sir, don’t be a fucking moron.” Morrison replied, his easy tone at odds with the rigid set of his shoulders, “We’re dead either way.”

Sam set his jaw, but before he could reply, he felt the spark bond _brighten_ with some indefinable emotion. It was urgent and purposeful and determined, all at once. Sam would have closed his eyes in relief, were it not for the micro-con that had darted too close. He brought the butt of his rifle down, smashing the little creature right in its face.

“Bumblebee is on his way.” He said, determinedly, “Hold on.”

“Yeah, sure.” Morrison replied, “Sir.”

His voice was tight and grim, like a man standing on the gallows with a noose around his neck. 

“I told you to call me Sam.” He quipped back.

Morrison fired several shots before his gun clicked, empty. “Alright, Sam. Glad to know you. Speak well of me at my funeral.”

The micro-cons pressed forward, forming a loose circle around them. They tittered to one another, swaying back and forth on their double-jointed legs, before each one went perfectly still. The seemed frozen in time, suspended like Megatron on ice, before the micro-con nearest Sam started _trilling_. The sound was high-pitched, almost painful, and Sam winced as he resisted the urge to cover his ears.

“That’s… not good.” Kelley said, uncertainly.

The micro-cons bristled, their plating flaring aggressively, as they rushed forward together. Sam closed his eyes, _reaching_ for Bumblebee, when the sound of multiple impacts had him snap them open again. The micro-cons were separated from the three men by a thin, translucent energy field. The shimmery dome extended over and around them, pale blue and perfect. Sam watched, disbelievingly, as the micro-cons threw themselves at the barrier, again and again, to no avail.

“Oh, merciful mother of God.” Morrison breathed out, “What kind of fuckery is this?”

“The best kind.” Kelley replied, faintly.

Morrison opened his mouth to say something, when streaks of laser fire cut through the clearing. The first volley hit a micro-con trying to scale the dome, exploding it into pieces. Bits of metal tumbled down the side of the dome, causing little fissures of light to dance across the surface. Sam hardly had time to marvel at the sight before more shots went off. The micro-cons exploded or collapsed in piles of limbs, off-lined and useless. The surviving drones shrieked in their dial-tone language as they rushed back into the underbrush. Their optics disappeared, one by one, until they were alone in the clearing.

 _//Come, Sam. Quickly.//_ Bumblebee instructed, as the dome disappeared.

“This way—follow me.” Sam blurted, taking off for the tree line as fast as his legs would carry him. Kelley and Morrison followed his lead, the sound of their heavy breathing still audible as they crashed through the forest. It was less than forty yards before the vegetation began to thin, and Sam could see the airfield in the distance. Moments later, they broke through the tree line to find Bumblebee, Trailbreaker, Mirage, and Cliffjumper waiting for them.

“Oh my God, I am so glad to see you!” Sam gasped out, “You have no idea!"

Bumblebee’s faceplates twitched up in a smile as he transformed into his alt mode. He popped open his doors the second that his tires touched the tarmac.

 _//I have some idea.//_ Bumblebee replied, wryly.

Sam scrambled into the driver’s seat as Morrison threw himself into the back of the Camaro. The passenger seat adjusted forward on its own, and Kelley climbed into the car a moment later. The doors snapped shut as soon as their limbs were out of the way, and then Bumblebee peeled rubber in the direction of the _Ark._

“What happened to Slipstream?” Sam asked, pulling the seatbelt across his chest.

“She abandoned the field as soon as the energy barrier was deactivated.” Bumblebee replied, accelerating to ninety miles per hour. The trees flashed by on one side, the airfield on the other. Sam leaned forward, angling his head to look up at the sky. The _Upstart_ was still hovering above the downtown, exchanging blasts with forces on the ground.

Sam swallowed, hard. “Did they…? I mean, is Megatron…?”

“He’s secured.” Bumblebee replied, pressing _reassurance_ across their bond, “The Hive has not been breached.”

The knowledge was little comfort as he watched two jets streak across the sky, loosing volleys of plasma fire as they flew. The sky was hazy with smoke, blotting out the noonday sun as though a heavy fog.

Suddenly, the seatbelt tightened painfully across Sam’s chest. It was the only warning that he got before Bumblebee slammed on his breaks and swung around, reversing their direction with crushing momentum. Cliffjumper, Mirage, and Trailbreaker followed suit, staying close on Bumblebee’s tail.

Sam opened his mouth to demand an explanation when something enormous crashed down in front of them. Bumblebee braked hard, throwing Sam into the seatbelt for a second time, as he evaded the obstacle.

“Is that a goddamn _tank_?” Morrison demanded, incredulously.

Sam twisted in his seat, staring out the back window to find a veritable war machine rumbling after them. It had to be Cybertronian in design—no human vehicle could move that quickly with that much armor plating. Sam narrowed his eyes, fear and rage blending together so seamlessly that he could not tell one from the other.

“Blitzwing.” He spat.

There was a terrible _ka-chuum_ sound, and a moment later, the ground in front of them exploded. Bumblebee swerved sharply as the sound of gunfire erupted behind them. The Camaro rocked on its shocks as he crossed what _used_ to be a well-maintained airfield—now nothing more than rubble and dirt.

“Prowl is going to be so pissed.” Sam said, faintly.

There wasn’t enough Smartseal in the world to fix the smoking crater that was rapidly falling away behind them. There was another whine of charging cannons, followed by a second explosion, this time only scant meters away from the passenger side door. Bumblebee swerved again, accelerating faster still. It took a moment before Sam realized that they were heading away from the _Ark._

“Where are we going?” He demanded.

“We’ve been ordered to fall back. Reinforcements are coming.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam gripped the door handle until his knuckles turned white. “Are they close?”

Bumblebee was interrupted by the sound of squealing tires and gunfire behind them. Sam twisted in his seat, catching sight of Cliffjumper firing on the tank as he drove in donuts around it. Mirage did the same, peppering Blitzwing’s hull with dings and scorch marks.

“They’re no match for a tank.” Sam said, urgently, as he glanced at the dashboard.

Bumblebee didn’t reply, which was a grim confirmation in its own right. Sam opened his mouth—whether to plead or protest, he didn’t know—when suddenly, the three vehicles peeled away from the tank in opposite directions.

He knew a split second of relief, before a volley of plasma shots lit up Blitzwing’s hull. The tank shuddered from the impact, grinding to a halt, before he abruptly transformed, first to his bipedal mode and then to his jet mode, and launched himself into the air. Sam watched as he shot towards the _Upstart_ , as though the devil himself were after him, when three jets streaked overhead in tight formation.

Sam went weak with relief—he would have recognized them anywhere.

_The Command Trine._

Bumblebee circled around, accelerating in the direction of the _Ark_ as Trailbreaker, Mirage, and Cliffjumper fell in behind them. Sam barely noticed—his entire attention was fixated on the three jets taking shots at Blitzwing as he disappeared into the belly of the _Upstart_. The trine banked hard, flying east and lighting up the sky with more laser fire. The last thing that Sam saw before they drove into the _Ark_ was the Command Trine closing in on Thrust as he tried to evade them.

Bumblebee pulled to a stop at the far end of the cargo bay, as the others parked along side him. He cut his engine a moment later, plunging the cabin into silence. Sam glanced down at his hands, which were still white-knuckled against the door and the center console. He loosened his grip, rubbing the pins and needles out of his fingers.

“So...” Morrison said, leaning forward to poke his head between the seats, “Did everyone else have a good time, too?”

The question startled a bark of laughter out of Sam, while Kelley just smiled faintly.

“Oh, yeah. It was a blast.” He replied, “Wait until you read my Tripadvisor review.”

“I can already imagine it.” Morrison agreed, sweeping his arm in front of him, “Lovely beachfront property, scenic views, and plenty of opportunity for exercise. Only the slight chance of full-scale war.”

Sam shook his head ruefully, once he had caught his breath, “I’m going to be so pissed if you guys are double agents.”

Morrison glanced over at him “Sorry, what now?”

“Nothing.” Sam replied, waving the question away.

“Did Bennett and Harper make it out alive?” Kelley asked softly.

The jovial air in the cabin vanished as quickly as it had arrived. Sam glanced at the dashboard, his lungs constricting with sudden anxiety.

“Bennett made it out with minor injuries.” Bumblebee replied, “Lieutenant Harper is in critical condition, but she is alive. First Aid was able to reach her in time.”

The news should have brought with it some sense of relief, but it didn’t. Instead, Sam felt leaden with exhaustion. He sighed, tipping his head back against the headrest. _What a day._

“Hey, that was a sweet tactical reload back there, Sam.” Morrison said, changing the subject, “Sucks that no one else saw it.”

Sam turned his head, directing a wry smile at the older man.

“It’s not as easy as Call of Duty makes it look.”

Morrison snorted, settling back against the seat. “Speak for yourself, noob.”

Sam’s smile curled a little wider. “Who says _noob_ anymore? What is this? An X-Box Live chat from 2005?”

“Philistine.” Morrison scoffed, “I’ll have you know that I earned my stripes getting called out by tweens on MMORPGs. Thanks.”

Sam’s laughter burst out of him, loud and genuine in reply.

* * *

The smoke had mostly dissipated by the time the sun dipped towards the horizon, sending long shadows across the ground. The _Nemesis_ had touched down on the southern airfield, resting on its landing struts like a great, metal behemoth. The sight made Sam’s stomach flip-flop with anxiety, even though its arrival had won the battle for them.

Bumblebee rolled forward, coming to a stop a short distance from Optimus Prime. The Autobot leader was standing at the edge of the airfield, and he had turned to regard them as they approached. Bumblebee opened his door, swinging it wide in silent invitation. Sam grabbed the doorframe, pulling himself out of the driver’s seat. Optimus went down to one knee as he crossed the distance between them, his optics shining in the dim light.

“Hello, Sam.” He greeted.

Sam smiled up at the Autobot leader, wan but genuine. “Hey, Optimus.”

“You preformed admirably today.” Optimus rumbled, inclining his helm, “You should be proud.”

Sam flushed in embarrassment, but before he could reply, he felt the familiar tickle of a medical scan sweep him from head to toe. He twisted, glancing over his shoulder at the source of the irritation. “I’m fine, Ratch.”

The medic was standing with the other senior officers, who had assembled to receive the _Nemesis._ His expression was shuttered, but his mental presence was uncharacteristically soft.

“So you are.” He replied, enigmatically.

Sam’s flush deepened further still, but his reply was forestalled by the whine of the loading ramp lowering to the tarmac. He turned back towards the _Nemesis_ , placing a hand against Bumblebee’s hood.

Optimus Prime straightened to his full height, before gesturing with one broad servo to his side. “Please, Sam. Join me.”

Sam’s brow furrowed in surprise and confusion, but he ambled forward all the same. He could hear the sound of transformation, and Bumblebee’s shadow fell across the pavement as he took his place behind him. Sam’s attention was captured by the sight of Starscream walking down the loading ramp. The Seeker’s head was held high, his wing flaps flared out on either side of him. More figures emerged from the darkness behind him—first Thundercracker and Skywarp, who fell into place at Starscream’s left and right, respectively, followed by Soundwave and four others that Sam didn’t recognize. The sight of the surveillance chief made his mouth go dry with anxiety. It took a great deal of effort to tear his eyes away and focus on Starscream, who was striding towards them.

The Seeker stopped a dozen meters away, as his soldiers fell into rank behind him. As soon as the last Decepticon had taken their place, Starscream crossed an arm over his chest and inclined his helm.

“Prime.”

Optimus inclined his helm in return. “Lord High Protector.”

To Sam’s surprise, the Seeker turned to regard him, before inclining his helm again. “Prime.”

He was too shocked for words, but Optimus _brushed_ across his mind, gentle and encouraging. Sam gathered as much dignity as he could manage, considering the blush warming his face, and inclined his head in return. “Lord High Protector.”

Starscream regarded him for a moment longer, before turning to look at Optimus. “You have called and I have answered, Prime—as tradition demands.”

“You have my gratitude, Lord High Protector.” The Autobot leader replied, “You honor us with your presence.”

The sense of formality and ritual abruptly vanished as Starscream propped a servo on his hip strut and scoffed aloud.

“Dispense with the pleasantries.” He retorted, “We need to discuss our strategy. The _Upstart_ was damaged, but not irreparably. Shockwave will be back… eventually.”

If Optimus was put off by his haughty tone, he certainly didn’t show it. The Autobot leader inclined his helm, before gesturing towards the two battleships—one on the northern airfield, the other on the southern.

“Would you prefer to speak on the _Ark_ or the _Nemesis_?”

Sam glanced sidelong at the Autobot leader—he was surprised that Optimus would allow the Decepticons access to the _Ark_ , which was their greatest tactical advantage. Starscream seemed equally taken aback, for he looked at Prime a moment longer before he recovered himself.

“I will speak with you on the _Nemesis_. You may bring the strategist and whatever reinforcements you desire, but your second-in-command stays here.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but Prime seemed unaffected by the demand.

“As you wish, Lord High Protector.” He rumbled in reply.

Prowl, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide stepped forward, at some unspoken command, and followed the Autobot leader towards the _Nemesis_. Starscream walked at his side, the shorter mechanoid straightened to his full height, as they crossed the airfield together. Sam watched them go until he noticed Thundercracker—the Seeker had stayed behind and, now that Starscream and Prime had left, he was approaching.

“Hello, Sam.” Thundercracker said in greeting.

Sam could feel Bumblebee’s tension as the Seeker neared, but he fixed him with a warm smile. “Hey, TC.”

The Seeker lowered into a loose crouch. “I received your gift. Thank-you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sam replied, “Thank-you for… well, for everything.”

The Seeker made a show of looking around the airfield, before turning back towards Sam. “The _Upstart_ is damaged, Shockwave and Barricade have fled, and Megatron is in stasis-lock. What will you do with yourself now?”

Sam’s face broke out in a genuine smile. “I don’t know, but at least I won’t be getting shot at all the time.”

The Seeker chuckled agreeably. “It will be a welcome change, I’m sure.”

Sam glanced around, noting the pointed looks that Thundercracker was receiving from the remainder of Prime’s senior officers. “What about you?”

The Seeker seemed to consider the question before he replied. “No idea. I suspect we’ll be seeing each other more often, now that Prime has acknowledged Starscream as the Lord High Protector.”

“How do you feel about that?” Sam asked, tipping his head to the side.

Thundercracker’s face split in a wry grin. “I don’t like getting shot at, either.”

Sam laughed, more a huff of air than an actual sound. “Well, then. Here’s to not getting shot at.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence had softened, but it lost none of its scrutiny. The scout stepped back, folding down into his alt mode before rolling forward, nudging the back of Sam’s legs with his bumper. Sam reached out, placing a reaffirming hand on his gleaming, yellow hood.

“I think that’s my cue.” He replied, “I’ll see you around, TC.”

The Seeker’s expression was difficult to decipher, half-obscured by the sunset, but he inclined his helm in valediction.

“Until we meet again, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Updated 01/30/2020:** Hello folks. I know that I promised you all an epilogue with jump training, but upon further reflection, I've decided to end the story here. (Sam and Thundercracker's conversation seems to wrap up the story-arc nicely). I will save the jump-training scene for a Vignette's chapter, and in the meantime, keep an eye out for the final story in the Signature series, _The Lost Son_ , which will be posted sometime soon!


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